Unto Oath's Completion
by Wintry Leaves
Summary: She could not refuse the wizard's offer: one Quest for a sooner end to her Oath. Avatya only needed to journey with the Company to Erebor and help the dwarves reclaim their home. Only, something precious is making itself known and not all Fell Creatures had chose to be Fell. What happens if you give the Fell a choice? [background Bagginshield]
1. Chapter 1 I–An Uninvited Guest

**Chapter I Part I–The Uninvited Guest**

* * *

 _In the beginning, there was a great many of them, and they sang together in harmony. Then Discord came upon them, and for a period they fell silent in dismay. He-She-Many-She too had stopped, but the new music was sweetly alluring and She sang to that tune instead._

 ** _So let these things Be! Eä!_**

* * *

"Give her this brew every morning for another two weeks and she will be well," said Avatya, dipping the ladle into the cauldron. The mixture smelled faintly of kingsfoil and liquorice, not unpleasant a scent, and tasted faintly sweet. "You will take the entire pot when you leave."

The Dunlending bowed deeply, proclaiming his gratefulness. Avatya turned away, and let the words of thanks die away unaccepted. Gratitude was not her due.

Acute senses perceived a person fast approaching in the distance.

"Leave," Avatya ordered, tilting her head to look back, and the man jerked upright with an apology, his face drawn from old worries.

The brew was for his wife, she remembered, who had been slowly fading with the coughing sickness. The fact mattered very little to her. "You can carry it?"

The Dunlending nodded, picking up his shoulder pole by the door. On one end he secured the handle of the pot, the other he had balanced with a basket of rocks. He bent his knees and lifted both pot and basket, bowing his head again as he left. Avatya walked past him and came to the window. Situated at the base of hill, the entire village was spread before her.

No doubt the wizard would reach her soon. He was near enough to know that they were both aware of each other's presence.

She clasped her hands together and waited.

Keen eyes saw a grey figure dismount from a brown horse in the distance. Vestiges of a greater power still clung to him, a reminder of who he had been and who he served. Avatya remembered the days when he had worn the form of an Elf and cladded in white and blue. Those days were long gone indeed. Now he was but an old man, as limited as she.

 _Oh, but the difference is that he walks Free_.

He strode upon village's dusty paths. Though they knew nothing of him, the people parted to let him through without hindrance. In a short order he had come close enough to see her standing at the window, and waved. Avatya let her arms remain as they were. Seemingly undaunted by the cold greeting, he marched up the hill and knocked on the open door.

"Good morning," said Gandalf. "May I come in?"

"That depends entirely on what you want."

"I am looking for someone willing to go on an adventure."

"No thank you." The rejection came swiftly.

His face softened a little. "You will be helping the Dwarves reclaim one of their kingdom, Me–"

"I am Avatya now," she said, proudly, clenching her hands into fists behind her back. "I hope you will call me as such."

"Avatya," Gandalf repeated slowly, looking at her with something like pity. She stared back, expressive as the wooden walls of her abode. The wizard sighed.

"You will be doing a lot of good if you help the Dwarves."

"But will that be enough?" The bitter question slipped from her lips before she could stop it, and Avatya held up a hand when the wizard opened his mouth. "No, I know the answer; you do not have to tell me."

Of course it would not be enough. As if helping to take back one kingdom for the dwarves would wash away the blood that dripped from her hands.

It was a foolish thought and she would do well not to forget it.

Her foolish days were past.

"Well," Gandalf said, "if you do wish to join, go to Bag End of Hobbiton in the Shire on the twenty-seventh of April. You will know that you have reached the right place when you see my mark."

"And if I do not?"

"Then you will have missed a good opportunity to make amends–"

"You need not speak to me of making amends," Avatya said very coldly. "Do not tell me how I should fulfil my Oath."

Gandalf was silent for a moment.

"There is, of course," he said at last, "that to consider."

Her wrists momentarily flared with a soul-deep itch, echoed in her ankles, but Avatya resolutely ignored it, seething. So this was it? Tightening the noose wrapped around her neck? How _dare_ he. How dare this wizard the _arrogance_ to step into her abode and—

"Do not come and pretend to give me a choice, Wizard, if you have come only for one response."

Gandalf looked at her with something unreadable in his eyes. "I shall not force you on this," he said slowly. "But know this: I count you as a friend–"

"I would rather you not."

"–and I know this is not something you would ordinarily do."

"You are right," Avatya said. "I have heard your case. You may go."

With a sigh, Gandalf tipped his hat to her. He lingered at the doorway, as if wishing to say more, but eventually turned and stepped out. Avatya stood by the door, almost a statue, and watched the wizard mount his horse and leave the Dunlending village.

Arrogant wizard. Did he think she would come at his beck and call as a tamed dog to a master? Avatya felt her lips pull into an ugly sneer that would surely cause the Dunlendings to reconsider coming to her had there been anyone to see it. She would obey only the Power she had sworn to and atone for her crimes to this marred world. Walk among the _Free peoples_ who had forgotten her deeds and repay her debts until she too was free.

 _Until she is free_.

Avatya sighed. The wizard had his own decisions to make. She did not fault him that. He had come with an offer instead of a command, unlike the _other_.

 _Him_ , she most dearly hated. It was most unfortunate that they had not crossed path in the beginning, for she would have greatly enjoyed ripping his tongue from his mouth. Such a weaselling snake with a speech as barbs coated in honey.

No, she should not think such. Thoughts as these were what caused her current situation, and she would rather be thrown into the Void than add to her debt.

Two ages of the world it had been, and she was no closer to the end of her Oath.

Avatya closed her eyes.

Her solitude was broken when a village boy ran to her window, eyes wide in terror, babbling about broken arms and bones jutting from skin.

She shook her head, barked at the boy to be silent, and picked up her healer's pack.

How much more until her Oath was complete?

The village slumbered. Under Tilion's light, Avatya checked each herb container to ensure that none of their contents had turned foul in storage. She would need to gather more horehound; her supply had been exhausted in the brew for coughing sickness.

She put away the jar of preserved athelas leaves.

If she did help the dwarves...

A lot of good, Gandalf had claimed. It would not be enough, but one kingdom was surely more valuable than merely curing coughs and broken bones. Her will wavered.

This was her price to freedom.

A cold, disapproving wind blew in from the west, flipping the sheets of waxed paper.

"Of course," Avatya said, some resigned bitterness in her voice as she glanced westwards out of the window. "I will obey."

At the end of the day, she was still chained and subject to the whims of a master. With a sigh, Avatya stood up and gathered what little she required for an "adventure". The rest she stacked on the shelves, carefully marked and labelled for others to use in the future.

When Arien peaked over the Misty Mountains, Avatya was long gone, heading to north the location known as "Bag End, the Shire".

* * *

 **Hello all! I... don't actually know what this is, except that it bothered me so much I couldn't sleep and wrote this at midnight like the sleep-depraved nut I am.**

 **This is just the beginning, and with some hope, luck, and less procrastination, the next chapter, Part II, will be coming quick. I figured that shorter chapters would be better motivation for completion /shrugs. This is NOT a fic where random female character falls in love with hot dwarves and romance happily ever after, and I'd be mightily offended if you claim it as such. :]**

Arien: Q. _Maiden of the Sun_. The sun.

Avatyar: Q. v. _forgive_.

Tilion: Q. _The Horned_. The moon.

 **Fic cover attributed to Phobs, who runs a Tumblr and Deviantart of the same name.**


	2. Chapter 1 II–More Uninvited Guests

So this was the Shire.

She looked around at the rolling green hills and the smoke curling lazily from chimneys on the grassy mounds. It was almost familiar—she had been here before, though then the green was covered by white snow and wolves and men prowled just behind the shadows.

The difference between then and now was profound.

The hobbits in their fields stared as she passed, murmuring curiously as she headed for the last and largest mound at the end of the road. This was the place she sought—Gandalf's signature all but hung on the door, most concentrated on the marks scratched into the wood. _Burglar, Danger, Treasure_. Smaller by the side was the G rune, and it glinted with a faint blue light as she approached.

The date was right, the place was right. With luck she would have gotten the time right also.

Avatya let herself into the carefully tended garden, and knocked on the round green door. Soft footsteps treaded near and the door swung open.

"Greetings," she said, bending a little to look under the doorway.

The hobbit blinked. Opened his mouth. Shut his mouth.

"Uh, good evening," he said and bowed. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service. Are you looking for anyone?"

"I am called Avatya," she said, inclining her head. "Is this Bag End?"

"Yes," said the hobbit.

"I was told to come here by the wizard Gandalf. Am I late?"

"What–? Late? Late for what?"

Avatya looked the hobbit up and down. He didn't look like he was dressed for company, with an evening gown wrapped around himself.

"When did you last speak to Gandalf?"

"This morning, actually. He wanted to–" the hobbit paused. A flicker of annoyance passed his face, and he said slowly, "He wanted to talk about an adventure."

This morning. Avatya closed her eyes. Had Gandalf truly neglected to inform his host of his machinations until the very day they were to meet in his home?

"I see Gandalf has been his usual informative self," she said dryly. "As you are surprised by my presence, I assume that I am the earliest to arrive and that you know nothing of what is happening. Very well, I will tell you what I know: there are Dwarves coming. I glimpsed two of them on my way here, but there may be more. They will meet up here to discuss their quest. I can see no reason why Gandalf will send them to your home save that he wants _you_ to meet them. To what end, I can only guess."

The hobbit gaped and seemed to suddenly remember that they were still at his doorstep. "Please do come in," he said stepping aside.

Avatya ducked beneath the low doorway, pausing as the hobbit shut the door behind, then followed him to the sitting room. She had never been in a hobbit's home before, and it was astonishingly different from those of dwarves and men. All the doorways were round, for one, and there was a clock on the mantelpiece. Elves had no need of one (though the Peredhil kept one in his study), while dwarves and men had not yet the ability to make it in quantities.

Carefully, Avatya raised her head. The ceiling was just high enough near the centre of the room for her to stand if she kept her head tilted.

The hobbit disappeared down a hallway, so she sat down on a wooden chair to wait for his return. It was not an entirely comfortable position; the chair had been made for someone with shorter proportions.

Before long, the hobbit returned, having changed his attire.

"Would you like some tea?" He sat down across Avatya and poured a cup with the teapot he'd brought with him.

"No, thank you," she said.

"You said at the door that there were dwarves coming?"

Avatya smiled wanly. "I am not aware of how many dwarves are coming, but it should be no less than four. You may ask Gandalf, when the old crow deigns to appear."

"I see," said the hobbit, in a tone that suggested he'd like to do more than simply query the Istar. Then he frowned. "Oh dear, they'll be coming for dinner, won't they?"

"Perhaps."

"Then I simply must get started with the preparations," the hobbit said, aghast, shaking his head.

Avatya had the strange feeling that the hobbit was more upset that he had uninvited _guests_ than that they were _uninvited_ guests.

He set his teacup down with a sound that is perhaps slightly louder than necessary and stood up. "I assume that you would also be staying for dinner?"

Avatya dipped her head. "I am here to listen to the dwarves' proposal. Apologies for intruding upon your hospitality."

The hobbit waved it away. "Guests are always welcomed in Bag End, though I do like to know my guests _before_ they arrive."

The last part was said in a grumble not quite meant for her ears as he stalked down a different corridor.

A scant moment later, there was a sound of ringing bells. The hobbit returned, marching through the sitting room to the entrance hall. Avatya followed him, and stopped at the doorway as he pulled the door open.

"Dwalin, at your service," said the dwarf outside.

"Bilbo Baggins, at yours," said the hobbit, with remarkably more calm than he had upon Avatya's entry.

The dwarf strode in, and Avatya saw that he was burly and thickset, with a suspicious frown on his face as he scrutinised the hobbit. Tattooed shapes decorate his bare scalp. This was a warrior.

"Where is–" He stopped.

"Greetings, Dwarf," Avatya said, head bent to the right.

"Greetings, _Elf_ ," the dwarf returned, venom in his words and old resentment in his gaze.

Face impassive, she crossed her arms and did not correct him. Her transgressions lasted longer than his lifespan—Avatya would not bother with this dwarf if such was his attitude. Finally, he looked away and turned to address the hobbit, as if to pretend that she was not standing there. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" The hobbit sounded bewildered by the question.

"The food," said the dwarf. "There is supposed to be lots of it."

Avatya made a soft, derisive noise that went unheard when the hobbit spoke. "I have not prepared it yet, but there is bread and cheese in the larder–"

"That will do for now," the dwarf said. "It will suffice until dinner is ready."

The hobbit gaped at him.

"You must forgive this dwarf, Master Hobbit," Avatya said, "his manners must have left for the same place as his hair."

The dwarf growled, turning. He wore metal knuckles on his hands, and he raised them unsubtly.

"Er, how-how about you come and eat in the dining room," the hobbit said hurriedly, cutting between them. He put a hand on the back of his second guest and guided him towards a different hallway. "I've bought the bread just this afternoon. There's two types, so you can choose…"

Avatya kept her eyes on the dwarf's until the two of them turned a corner.

Bilbo was a polite hobbit. He needn't have worried that she would damage his home.

The doorbell rang again.

The hobbit appeared, having apparently appeased his guest with the promised bread and cheese, and opened the door after a quick glance her way.

"Balin, at your service," came the warm voice.

"Bilbo Baggins, at yours," said the hobbit, and the dwarf stepped in. He had a much friendlier countenance, and his bushy white beard moved as he came up to the hobbit.

"Am I late?"

"You are the second dwarf to arrive, if that's what you mean," said Bilbo, looking suddenly worried as the dwarf stopped to look at Avatya.

"Greetings, Dwarf," she said with some semblance of a smile.

"Good evening," the dwarf returned, staring curiously. "Though I think it might rain later. Did Gandalf tell you to come?"

"Gandalf _suggested_ it," Avatya said. "How many your people are coming?"

"Twelve," the dwarf replied, just as a loud "Oh!" caught his attention.

He spun around to see the other dwarf standing in the hallway and beamed. "Good evening, brother!"

They went down the hallway together, and Avatya heard a comment about the latter growing shorter and wider before they went into the dining room.

"Pardon if I'm intruding," the hobbit began, when they were alone by the door. "But did you know, ah, Dwalin?"

"I had not the pleasure," Avatya said, with a tone that very much suggested it was not a pleasure.

"I see," said the hobbit. "So just now…"

"He was rude and presumed," she said simply.

The hobbit seemed like he would very much like to say something but thought better of it.

The doorbell pealed again.

With a sigh, he pulled the door open.

"Fíli."

"And Kíli."

"At your service."

The two dwarves at the door bowed. Avatya noted that they were rather young for dwarves, not yet sprouting the beard that their kind was known for.

"You must be Mister Boggins," said the second, dark-haired dwarf once he had straightened. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

" _Baggins_ ," said Bilbo, stepping aside so both the dwarves could enter.

"I told you so–" hissed the blond dwarf, who was quickly shushed by the other. "Our apologies, Mister Bo-Baggins."

"It's alright," said Bilbo. "It, er, happens sometimes."

"It's a nice place you've got here," said the dark-haired dwarf, looking around. "Oh, good evening."

"Greetings," Avatya returned, and the dwarf turned his attention to scraping the mud off his boots.

At the sound, Bilbo turned around, his arms ladened with weaponry loaded on him by the other dwarf. "Hey sorry, but can you not do that? That's my mother's glory box."

The dwarf did not seem to have heard him, and gave his boot one last scrape.

Avatya frowned.

"Fíli! Kíli!" Balin called, waving to them from just outside dining room. "Good to see you. Come, we must move the tables or everyone wouldn't fit."

The two dwarves left, calling greetings to those already present. There was a crash of metal on wood as Bilbo freed his arms of the weapons. "Twelve dwarves," he said incredulously to Avatya. " _Twelve_."

It seemed that the more dwarves had appeared, the more he was rapidly reassessing their status as guests. Clearly, some of those present had not endeared themselves to him.

The bell rang.

Bilbo closed his eyes, muttering "twelve" under his breath like a mantra. He made no move to open the door.

The bell rang again.

" _Twelve_ ," he said, like a curse, and pulled the door open.

"Oh–!"

Dwarves spilled onto his floor. Behind the pile of groaning bodies, Gandalf bent over and peered into the room. His eyes lit up when he saw Avatya, and he smiled at Bilbo, who seemed to have hurtled rapidly past anger and into the territory of calmness before an eruption.

"Gandalf," the hobbit said, in nearly the same tone one might use to say "orc".

"Bilbo!" The wizard smiled, as the dwarves on the floor picked themselves up. Those already in the kitchen had stepped out to investigate the noise, and they waved the newcomers over cheerfully, greetings flying through the air.

As the group disappeared, Avatya heard the sound of something wooden scraping the floor coming from the other room. Bilbo winced, hurrying away after the dwarves.

"These are the dwarves you say will reclaim Erebor?" she said skeptically to the wizard, over the sound of two skulls meeting each other at speed.

"They are all good people," Gandalf said, bowing his head to enter the hobbit-hole. "I must say, I had not quite expected to see you here. Hoped, certainly, but…"

"I had a change of heart," Avatya said curtly. A change of heart and some _encouragement_ , but if Gandalf was unaware of the latter she would let his ignorance lie.

"It is good that you have come," he said, moving towards the kitchen. There is the sound of something heavy being pushed across the floor, and Bilbo's voice among the racket, protesting.

She ignored his words and headed down the hall towards the rooms making the most noise. The wizard followed behind, both of them bent beneath the low doorways.

The dwarves had found their way to Bilbo's larder, and they seemed intent on emptying it. A large dwarf carrying three wheels of cheese walked across the hall ("He eats it by the block," confided a different dwarf, when Bilbo called after him), followed by others bearing plates of chicken and leafy vegetables.

None of them paid the hobbit much mind.

"Excuse me," said a dwarf, coming from a different side room. Avatya was impressed by how interconnected each room was. "Mister Gandalf, Miss… Elf, may I tempt you both with a cup of chamomile?"

"You may call me Avatya," she said in response. "And no thank you."

The dwarf bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Dori, Miss Avatya."

"No thank you, Dori," said Gandalf, shaking his head. "I think a little red wine would be better."

The dwarf nodded and retreated with another bow.

He was polite enough. Avatya curved of her lips and went to Bilbo, who was silently fuming by the wall between the two rooms.

"At the very least," she suggested, coming to stand beside him, "you do not need to concern yourself over the preparation of dinner."

"Yes, because these dwarves seem to think they own this place," the hobbit snapped. Paused. Shook his head. "Sorry, I shouldn't be irritated at you. You've given me a warning, at least. This is entirely Gandalf's fault."

The wizard had the misfortune of walking into the hallway they were in just as Bilbo finished his sentence. The hobbit eyed him grimly.

"Pardon me, I am going to give him a piece of my mind."

"Please," said Avatya. "Feel free to shout at the meddler. You have my blessing."

Bilbo smiled thinly and left the wall.

" _Excuse me_ , Gandalf," he said, going over to the wizard, who turned to look at him with a small glass of wine. "At which part of _no_ did I lose you? Tell me so I can continue from there. There's dwarves everywhere!"

"I heard your argument in the morning very well, Bilbo," said Gandalf. "But these dwarves need a place for one night, and you I thought was most equipped to handle them. Besides, you'll get used to them in no time, and they're quite a merry gathering once you do."

Liar. Avatya scoffed.

"I _do not wish_ to 'get used' to them," Bilbo said indignantly. "Do you know how hard it is to get mud from the carpet? They have brought an entire field's worth of mud with them into _my_ home, absolutely _pillaged_ my pantry, and they're misusing my furniture!"

As if on cue, a dwarf walked by with a doily, and the hobbit snatched it from his hands. "Doily," he said sternly, "not a dishcloth."

Avatya tilted her head. She used neither.

The dwarf, too, failed to see the difference.

"See?" Bilbo said to Gandalf, waving wildly at the dwarf. "Misusing my furniture."

Avatya shook her head and slipped from the room.

* * *

Dwarves were rowdy diners. She watched in disgusted fascination as they spilled ale and sauce and Valar-knew-what-else into their beards, before fouling the air with long, drawn-out belches.

A very, very small part of her was immensely impressed at their ability to carry so many different conversations simultaneously. One dwarf fended off pointed questions about his less than legal hobbies, discussed the weather, and caught up with the news with four different dwarves in the same breath, which was a feat Avatya would have considered impossible, considering that his hands rarely left his mouth for a duration longer than the time taken to grab a new piece of chicken.

Every other part of her was greatly perturbed by this casual, raucous, _mess_.

Bilbo seemed horrifically awed.

They were, on the other hand, remarkably good at cleaning up. It did make sense; full dwarven feasts could leave entire cities looking like the aftermath of a small battle, blood optional. One small (relatively speaking) meal in Bag End was hardly comparable.

As the dwarves admired their handiwork, presented in several stacks of dishes, three resounding knocks came from the door. A instant hush fell over the dwarves.

This could only be their leader.

"He is here," Gandalf said softly, drawing himself up.

More docile than she'd ever seen them in the entire evening, the dwarves followed the wizard to the door. Avatya walked beside Bilbo, who seemed a little bewildered by their sudden meekness.

Whoever he was, the latecomer was held in high regard by those present. Combined with the nature of the quest, she could hazard a few guesses about his identity.

"Ah Gandalf," said the dwarf when the door opened. "I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I almost lost my way twice."

Bag End _was_ easy to find. Even if Avatya had the advantage of perceiving Gandalf's marks, the other dwarves had arrived without comments of losing their way. Either the dwarf was lying or he'd just prevaricated and now needed an excuse for his tardiness.

He stepped in, loosening his coat. Behind, Gandalf shut the door, and motioned at the dwarf.

"Bilbo Baggins, Avatya," he said, with a gesture at the latecomer, "allow me to introduce the leader of the company, Thorin Oakenshield."

The dwarf regarded them coldly. "So this is the hobbit and your mysterious fifteenth. Tell me Gandalf, did you think I could not guess your vague hints? I would be most unpleasantly surprised if I had come unprepared."

The wizard shifted.

"You, Hobbit." Bilbo jumped at being so sharply addressed. "Have you done much fighting?"

"Pardon me?"

"Axe or sword? What is your weapon of choice?" The dwarf pushed past her to circle the hobbit. " _Can_ you even fight?"

For a moment, Bilbo gaped at him, before recovering to answer, "Neither, none, and I have some skills with conkers, if you must know."

The dwarf sneered. "Just as I thought. A grocer, not a burglar."

The other dwarves laughed, some a little forced.

"And you, Elf."

Avatya crossed her arms and leaned back, her gaze frigid on the dwarf.

"What is _your_ contribution?"

Courtesy, for one. She bit back the response and looked at Gandalf. _This_ was the leader? He presumed more than the first dwarf, and made the other seem positively polite.

Her wrists ached.

"I specialise in healing," she said instead, focussing on something other than stuffing the dwarf's tongue into unspeakable areas.

"So does Óin," the dwarf retorted, and a dwarf with a looped grey beard shifted uncomfortably in the crowd. "On account of Gandalf's _advice_ , I permit you to join the company, but you will not receive a single piece of Erebor's treasure."

"Then it is a good thing I did not come for dragon-tainted gold, Dwarf." Avatya scoffed over the murmurs of the other dwarves. Gold and gems were the least on her mind when she left the Dunlendings. "You do not—cannot—comprehend my reason for coming, and I see that fact as unlikely to change."

He glowered and turned away. The second dwarf to arrive, Balin, directed him towards the dining room, and the dwarves trooped off.

She waited until she and Gandalf were alone before speaking.

"I was unaware that Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, had become such an ill-mannered, prejudiced creature."

To think she had once helped his people—his refugees—and treated them for dragon burns when they were exiled from Erebor.

"He bears a heavy burden," Gandalf offered, looking at the dwarves' back with a mixture of pity, disapproval, and something unreadable. "Though I do not condone his behaviour at all. I shall have some words with him."

"I bid you luck in penetrating his natural thick skull," Avatya said. "He put Bilbo off the notion of an adventure rather neatly. Even I had never set fire to bridges as quickly as he had."

She tipped her head at the wizard, at his schemes that may have been completely derailed by one dwarf's manners, and headed towards the dining room.

* * *

 **Felt the urge to write for this instead of my main fic, so have another chapter yay. Do leave a review on your way out, thank you very much. I reciprocate and reply. :]**


	3. Chapter 1 III–All Guests Leaving

Sometime between tossing eggs and plates, the other dwarves had saved a meal for the their king. They sat around him in silence as he ate, and gave Avatya uncertain glances when she sat on a stool by the doorway. Not more than a few steps behind, Gandalf arrived and pulled himself an empty seat beside Thorin. The dwarves on that side of the table hastily shifted, creating a space at the table for the wizard.

Bilbo treaded softly into the room when he had finished muttering angrily to the fireplace in the neighbouring room, just as the plates were all put away into an arbitrarily chosen cupboard. Upon his entrance, Gandalf turned.

"Ah Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light please."

The hobbit nodded stiffly and pulled out a single candle from a cupboard. A moment later it was lit, and he placed it on the table as Gandalf unfolded a map. More for the benefit of the hobbit than anyone else present, the Istar spoke of the Lonely Mountain where Erebor lay.

When he had explained its ruin,

"The portents say it is time," said a red-haired dwarf solemnly, to the mutters of others. "Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain—it is foretold when the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end."

Bilbo looked at him. "Er, beast? What beast?"

It wasn't that long ago; did hobbits learn nothing of the histories of the other races?

"Dragon, Bilbo. A dragon took Erebor nearly two centuries ago," Avatya said.

Another dwarf added on. "Yeah. Smaug the Terrible. Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks–"

"I do know what a dragon is," said Bilbo testily, though he looked as if he would rather not. "But where does it come in?"

"About the same time as you do, laddie," a dwarf told him. Wearily, he addressed the others. "Our task is difficult enough even with an army behind us, but we number just twelve, and not twelve of the best nor brightest either. Even with a Burglar and a Healer, I don't see us with good odds."

In a spectacular case of missing the point, a dwarf called, "Oi, who you're calling dim?"

They erupted into a chorus of protests.

Avatya laid her head against the wood of the hobbit's doorway and sighed. She'd known it was coming the moment Gandalf had mentioned Erebor, yet still she felt a great sense of regret. It wasn't regret over past, for once, but rather a sorrow for the future.

Dragons were, after all, meant for her to cherish and protect, like Yavanna did her Ents and Manwë his Eagles. Now they were her wrongs to right.

Without knowing his brood-name, she could only guess at Smaug's ancestry. All Urulóki that survived the First Age were Ancalagon's siblings or hatchlings at the time Angband fell, for the Host of Valinor had been very thorough in their destruction of the broods. Any survivors were those that had crawled or flew away during the battle.

"–Gandalf would have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"

She tilted her head down to look.

The dwarves had all turned to look expectantly at the wizard. Avatya scoffed.

The first dwarf, Dwalin, turned. "Yes, Elf? Killed any dragons?"

"Oh _no_ ," she said, matching his snide tone. "I fed them."

The dwarf with the large hat barked a laugh. "And you, Gandalf?"

"Yeah, how many?" Another dwarf chimed in.

Gandalf spluttered.

Avatya shook her head as the dwarves began arguing again.

* * *

It was thereabout midnight when the meeting was over and the dwarves had been shown to their rooms or the spare armchairs and couches. Bilbo had regretfully informed her and Gandalf that he lacked Mannish beds, so they would have to settle their sleeping on their own. Avatya did not mind; she needed little of sleep and cared even less where she got it. She assured Bilbo she'll be fine, and left his crowded hobbit-hole.

The night air was refreshingly crisp. With the door behind her, Avatya straightened and stretched, her eyes seeking the Star of Eärendil. He was, as always, remarkably easy to find, brightly glimmering his way slowly across Ekkaia, the Encircling Sea. Out of habit, she traced Vingilot's path westwards, and looked just slightly _away_ from where the star rose. There, she knew, was the Door of Night, beyond any mortal sight.

Avatya turned her gaze away and brushed her hurt aside. One day, she would be be able to look at the door with indifference. One day, she would not care about who and what lay on its other side. One day, one day.

Behind, the door opened. The smell of smoke reached her nose, and she wrinkled it in distaste.

"Lovely night," Gandalf commented, as she silently moved to a side.

"Perhaps," she allowed. "Good night, Gandalf."

She turned around, considered the steep slope by the hobbit-hole's round window, and sprang lightly onto the grassy mound that was Bilbo's roof. By the oak that grew proudly on the hill, Avatya glanced down at the wizard. He looked up and met her gaze, almost pitying again. She kept her face clear and stared stonily back until at last he turned and hobbled down the street, probably to meddle a little elsewhere.

Once he had left, Avatya let out a breath she had not been quite aware she was holding. Dealing with wizards was always rather trying. The oak rustled, branches creaking, and she leaned into its trunk. When she had composed herself, she gave the bark a fond pat and scaled it. There was wide, forked branch a little higher up, and she laid down there, one leg dangling freely from the branch.

The sky was mostly unobscured where she was. Idly, Avatya raised a hand before her, marking out the Valacirca with a wry smile.

Her sleeve fell. In starlight, her shackle gleamed green, dark as the leaves around her. It wasn't thick—none of hers were—and it was neither short. Nearly half her forearm was encased—the size necessary to hold the Words of Power Avatya knew to be etched within the metal. In the depths of her mind, she thanked Aulë again for forgoing the collar. A monster, a prisoner, she could handle; a slave, she could not.

Gradually, the sounds from Bag End began to quiet and the lights began to dim.

Avatya took a breath, taking in the smell of hearth and farmlands, woodsmoke and blissful, _ignorant_ security, and closed her eyes.

* * *

The day was only just dawning when the occupants of Bag End began to stir. Lowered voices spoke in hushed tones, muffled by distance. Avatya murmured her thanks to the oak for the accommodation and dropped onto the grass. Through the morning mist, she caught sight of a pointed grey hat approaching and chose to remain on the hill, even as the owner of the hat looked up and smiled.

The door opened and the dwarves trooped out. Avatya narrowed her eyes; the hobbit was not with them. Neither the dwarves nor Gandalf seemed to mind his absence, making their way steadily out of Bilbo's garden and down the road.

If they weren't worried, she wasn't about to be either. She slipped down the hill and followed a short distance away from the last dwarf, who was betting on Bilbo's later appearance with his triangular-haired partner.

"Five silvers that he _would_ ," said the other, after a moment's consideration.

"When did you become such an optimist?" the first one returned. "I'd say the halfling would be pleased to see the back of us, after his shock last night."

He glanced around and lowered his voice " _Thorin_ was hardly the most welcoming."

"Ah, well, Bofur, I have a feeling about our burglar, and I daresay he'll be chasing after us as soon as he realises we're gone. People like him only say they don't want anything, but secretly?" The dwarf thumped his chest. "They _yearn_ it."

Avatya raised an eyebrow.

"Alright. Five silvers, Nori, and don't you be taking them any moment before the halfling shows up," Bofur said, with a bark of laughter from Nori.

They shook on it.

Personally, Avatya thought that Bilbo had little choice in the matter—were Gandalf truly convinced that he would not be coming, he would have done more than merrily leading them towards the Bywater Inn (Avatya could not quite recall its name, save that there was a dragon—the Red Dragon? Gold Dragon? Black Dragon Inn?). If Gandalf was confident that Bilbo would come, Bilbo most likely would.

She found herself rather hoping it was true. The road to Erebor would be rather dull otherwise, with only surly dwarves and the wizard for company.

* * *

Thorin, now that he had a goal and the tools to achieve it, seemed determined to get started as soon as possible. They did not stop long in Bywater, only just long enough for the dwarves to retrieve their items from the Green Dragon Inn and for those without ponies to acquire one.

Avatya found herself a hobbit farmer who was willing to part with a mare past her foaling years, and acquired Bryony for four silver pennies. Her seldom-used money pouch was noticeably lighter after the purchase, and she tucked it back into her pack.

The hobbit-woman was surprised when Avatya returned Bryony's tack and halter, and her eyebrows vanished entirely into her hair as she swung herself up without fanfare and rode barebacked to the Inn. There, she waited, steadfastly ignoring the surly looks Thorin and Dwalin sent her every so often. Balin took the longest to reappear, and he did so with two ponies behind trailing after him.

"That's everyone," Thorin said, scanning the area, and nodded. "Let's go."

Gandalf had the faintest hint of a frown, but he did not disagree with the order, and the company set off.

Avatya glanced back as they left Bywater, and smiled to herself at the sight of a small figure running towards the village, a length of parchment held flapping in the air.

Bilbo came.

* * *

 **Thank you very much, Guest, for giving me the motivation to write this chapter. This is very much dedicated to you, short as it is, because I haven't much time lately, with exams on Monday and everything.**

 **(silently crying)**

 **So uh, index of terms?**

 **Urulóki - dragons of the fire-breathing variety.**

 **Ekkaia - as mentioned, the Encircling Sea. A sort of atmosphere that wraps around Arda (the world, while Middle-earth is the location, just to clarify), and where Eärendil sails around on his shiny ship Vingilot.**

 **Valacirca - the Sickle of the Valar, put into the sky as a warning to Morgoth in the way way back in the past.**

 **Bryony - name of Avatya's mare. It's also a flowering gourd-y plant, and I chose it because it ends in Y and goes with Minty and Myrtle and Daisy.**

 **And that's it, I think. All the other terms are familiar enough even without reading the books if you've read enough fanfiction.**

 **god bless me it's 1.19 a.m. I have to do some intense revision tomorrow morning and I'm doing _this_ now help.**


	4. Chapter 2 I–Trollshaw and Fell

It felt strange to be travelling with others and to be riding on horseback. Avatya had always gone alone at her own comfortable pace, taking the rare stop to take a light meal. Running kept her occupied with her steps, lest she tread into a burrow or lose her footing in the uneven wild-lands, and left her mind less time to _think_. The dwarves were a loud, lively bunch; each dwarf seemed intent on catching-up on what the others had done in the past few decades, and the result was conversations atop conversations and a steady stream of chatter.

The years had not been kind to Durin's folk. Avatya gathered that more than one dwarf had experienced the unpleasantness of being short-changed on a craft, and none of them had managed to stay in a Mannish town for long—inevitably there tended to be _incidents_ , and regretfully a Mannish smith or craftsman would take over the forge and smithy.

Avatya felt her lip curl. She knew well the unsavoury side of Men. It was why she had went to Dunland—people there had faced the aggressive hostility of the edain for the faults of their forebears and time had worn much of it away in themselves.

Bilbo, still faintly flushed over the handkerchief incident, rode beside her. Between the sizes of their horses and their natural height, Bilbo's head came up to her mid-torso.

"It is not wrong to be a gentlehobbit," Bilbo said forcefully, albeit lowly to not be heard by their Dwarf companions. The rag Bofur had tossed him dangled limply on his pony's reins, and Bilbo eyed in distaste, wrinkling his nose.

"Certainly," Avatya said.

"Nothing wrong with not liking mud on the carpet or having someone clean their boots on your _mother's_ glory box," he continued. "Or having your plates thrown about and your doilies used as a rag and being called a _grocer_ by a stranger."

Avatya made a sympathetic sound.

Bilbo startled, turning a little pink in the ears. "Sorry."

"What for?" Avatya said, giving him a small smile. "It is quite within your authority to be frustrated with rude guests."

"You do not seem very much affected," Bilbo observed, and she hummed.

"I have heard worse from greater sources. It is only their presumption that irks me—that an Elf must be a uptight Dwarf-hater,"she added, when Bilbo only showed polite confusion with the blankness of his face.

"I see."

She would forgive their assumption that she was an elf, because she did resemble one in all the ways that mattered.

"I expect they will tell you the story behind their distrust sooner or later, so I will not. I only ask that you remember Thranduil has a duty to his own people before all others."

"I see?" Bilbo said uncertainly.

"Thranduil is not the most likeable character, just as his father and grandfather before him, but neither is he an enemy."

Avatya grinned a little at Bilbo's confused look.

"Apologies. You can take my words as a waffle until a time they become clear to you."

Bilbo shot her a look, but it was not irritated nor disgusted, so Avatya let her smile linger as she turned her attention to the fore.

Gandalf was arguing with Thorin at the head of their little group, until the wizard seemed to have had quite enough of it. Avatya let her satisfaction rise and claim her, more than glad to see Gandalf encounter someone more stubborn than himself. Her smile faded when the wizard began to drop back, and was replaced entirely by stony nothingness when he moved past the dwarves and came to their row.

"How are you?" He asked Bilbo cheerfully, eyes shadowed under the wide brim of his hat.

Avatya glared at Bryony's mane as Bilbo answered, and patted the side of the mare's neck in silent apology when she turned her grey head around to look.

"And you, Avatya?"

Avatya glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Gandalf did not seem as if this was a temporary change in positioning. Blast him.

"Fine." She said curtly, not looking at him.

She felt Bilbo's gaze falling between the two of them, and could not muster the effort to say anything.

There was a sigh, and then Gandalf asked Bilbo another question. The hobbit answered hesitantly at first, but soon it became a proper conversation.

Avatya kept her eyes firmly ahead and did not think about murder.

And so the journey went.

* * *

When the sun was just about to set, Thorin stopped the group at a large clearing.

"We shall camp here," he said, surveying the area. Dwalin muttered something to him, and he nodded sharply. "Fíli, Kíli, round up the horses. Óin, Glóin, get a fire going."

One by one the dwarves dismounted. Fíli came to collect the reins of the ponies, and blinked at Avatya when he saw she was riding without bridle and saddle.

"Where will you keep them?" She asked him, and Fíli jerked his head in the direction of his brother, who was tying the other ponies to the trunks of trees at one side of the clearing.

"We're tying them down for the night and let them graze in the morning," he explained, looking at her oddly. "Isn't it tiring to ride like that?"

"Hardly," Avatya replied. "It is not the custom of Elves to ride with tack."

To Bryony, she gave a good rub on the withers in recognition of her day-long exertion and pressed her forehead against the mare's neck.

"Well done," she murmured in Sindarin, "Now it is time for rest. Will you stay around there for the night?"

Bryony nickered, nosing her hair.

Avatya smiled. "Thank you."

The mare did not understand her words, but Sindarin conveyed meanings better than Westron and Khuzdûl. Bryony would not leave in the night.

Fíli was staring at her as Bryony walked away.

"She will stay around the other horses," Avatya told him. "You do not need to be concerned for her."

"Can you do that for all horses?" He asked, holding up the two reins that was his and Thorin's pony.

Avatya glanced at them and shook her head. "Bryony trusts my words because she has borne me through the day and has not been misled. Your ponies may or may not choose to listen, and are likely to wander off as not."

"Shame about that," Fíli said easily, lowering his hands. "Is–"

"Fíli!" Thorin called, scowling in their direction. The other dwarves were nearly done setting up the camp—a small fire was burning in the middle of the clearing, and the large dwarf—whatever his name was—was beginning on meal preparations.

Avatya dipped her head at the dwarf and took a step back. "I shall not hold you back from your task any longer."

Shouldering her pack, she strode to the edge of the clearing and looked up at the trees. They were tall, magnificent oaks, looming over the camp on all sides. She pressed a hand against one, feeling the tree leapt into her touch.

Elves had passed these woods as they tired from the world and left for Elvenhome, and some of them had yet the strength and the mind to cultivate a slow friendship even on this journey. The land was friendly, and only a fool or someone truly desperate would try to harm them here.

A clearing of throat brought her attention back to her body.

"Avatya, the soup's ready."

She turned to Bilbo. He was holding two bowls, one of which he extended to her.

"Oh—thank you," she said to him, a little surprised. She had not expected there to be a portion for her, what with the vehement dislike on their leader's side and the lack of contractual obligation that the dwarves had with Bilbo.

The soup was still steaming, smelling of salted meat and carrot. There was a thick wooden spoon partially submerged into it, and Avatya fished it out to lean against the side of the bowl.

Bilbo was still standing there, and he looked away sheepishly when she raised her head.

"Uh, do you want to join us? Or join me, actually, since…" He trailed off with a small grimace and a half-shrug.

Avatya looked over his head to see that Gandalf was seated on a log with Balin, both of them eating in silence. The rest of the dwarves had fallen into their old groups, and she could understand how a Hobbit would have sought her company over their comfortable, familiar, friendships. Besides, there was not much surfaces left…

"If you do not mind sitting on roots," she replied, and sat down on the dry soil.

Bilbo smiled, a small, glad thing that made Avatya feel as if she had granted him a large favour instead of mere courtesy. It was a peculiar feeling and she blinked it away.

Her sleeve drooped as she lifted the spoon, and she saw the curiosity that entered Bilbo's face when he saw the glint of red.

"What's that?"

Well, it was hardly a secret, and she had never treated it as one.

Avatya took a sip from the spoon and raised her forearm a little just so that the gleam of the band was visible.

"It is protection," she said dryly, fingers stiff lest they start twitching with the urge to scratch an itch that could not be eased. "And a reminder of my words."

Bilbo leaned closer, and Avatya allowed him a good look at the patterns of the metal before she shook her arm and let her sleeve cover its entirety. He looked up, bemused, but chose not to ask the obvious question on his mind, for which she was glad. Avatya had no intentions of reciting history.

"Where are you from?" He asked instead, and watched her with large eyes as he blew on his soup.

"Before I came to the Shire, I was in Dunland," Avatya said after a moment, and she set her empty bowl aside. "Coomtref. It is within a valley by the Misty Mountains."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "What is it like?"

"Very small. It is smaller than Bree, for the earth there is nothing like the earth in Hobbiton. Little grows there, but what does is enough for the people to survive." She cocked her head. "I have only stayed in Coomtref for a week before the Wizard came, but it is similar to all other Dunlending settlements; bare and harsh."

It was very easy to understand why the Dunlendings more than disliked the Rohirrim, even so long after their last battle. Just across the mountains was another land of plenty, and it had used to belong to them.

Bilbo was frowning faintly, reaching absently towards his pocket before he abruptly stilled and put his hand on the ground instead. His frown intensified, and he shot a look at the group of laughing dwarves around the campfire.

"It is a pity about your handkerchief," Avatya offered, for it was obvious Bilbo was still affected by its loss and the dwarves' mockery.

He sighed deeply. "It's alright, I'll–I'll just have to get used to not using one for the time being."

He got to his feet, empty bowl in hand, and bent down for Avatya's. She picked it up herself and stood. The Dwarf who'd offered her tea—Dori—was cleaning up with a cloth and a waterskin.

"Thank you for bringing them back," he told them, taking the bowls from their hands.

Avatya dipped her head as Bilbo said, "It wasn't a trouble. Thank you, Dori."

As dinner came to an end, the activity around the campfire began to cease. Slowly, bedrolls began to be laid out and conversations slowed.

Gandalf, as wizards were wont to do, chose the best spot by the fire. Bilbo was next to him, which put the Hobbit beside Balin.

"What are you doing, Elf?"

"Keeping watch, Dwarf," Avatya replied, wedging her pack in a branching fork and settled herself on a branch only a little higher than the fork. She looked down at Dwalin from her position in the oak, more than partially concealed by the leaves and shadows.

"I'll take the second watch," he growled, eyes narrowing. "You will not need to wake me."

"Do as you will, Master Dwarf," Avatya retorted.

Dwalin exhaled heavily through his nose and turned away. Activity in the camp continued its slowing down, until at last snores filled the air and the fire faded to embers.

* * *

Daytime was filled with constant riding along the East Road.

Nights they spent in dells off the road or in empty caves, and Avatya took the first and the final watch each time. Dwalin, true to his word, always awoke as midnight passed, and spent a few minutes silently glaring into her back before she stopped paying attention to the physical world and slipped onto the dream paths. She always returned when she felt Eärendil approach the eastern horizon, and awoke for the final watch till dawn.

And so it was that nearly three weeks later they arrived at a truly dilapidated building that had once served as a house to "a farmer and his family".

Avatya stared at it. The wood was burnt and blackened, the beams collapsed or in the midst of collapsing. Only two-thirds of the walls still stood, and even those were riddled with holes. So too was the roof. Sunlight shone in dapples on the patchy grass floor.

If a farmer and his family had lived here, they must have been gone for only two weeks at the very most, or grass would have spread across the entire floor. Whatever misfortune that befell the house could either have gone very far or were still around.

Gandalf was having another argument with Thorin within it, and it was one where he was losing. Avatya hid her smile as the wizard strode out with an aggravated air about him and stalked off.

"Wait!" Bilbo called, waving his hands about. "Gandalf, where are you going?"

"To seek the company of the only one around here who's got any sense," the wizard grumbled.

"Who'd that be?"

"Myself, Mister Baggins!" Was the response, and they lost the grey of his cloak to the woods.

Bilbo turned around helplessly. "Is he coming back?"

"Aye, who knows the thoughts of wizards," Balin said with a shrug. "They come as they will and leave as they will."

"Rather like cats!" Bofur called, and the dwarves laughed.

Avatya smiled with them and touched Bilbo's shoulder lightly. "You ought not concern yourself about the Wizard. It is an incredible shame that I have not yet seen him troubled by anything he deems unworthy of his trouble."

"That's right," Balin said, already turning to retrieve his belongings from his pony before Fíli and Kíli came to round them up.

Bryony, by now used to the procedure, followed behind the two dwarves as they herded the rest away.

As Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur began preparing their meal using what was left of their dried meat and mushrooms gathered along the way, Avatya settled herself on a log and checked the contents of her pack. She had not brought much of her herbs with her; only those that grew in the South or were harder to find in the wild was carried along, while the rest were left behind in their tins back in Coomtref.

She hoped they were used instead of withering away to impotency. It had taken effort to collect and to preserve them, and it would be a waste if they had gone unused.

"Is that kingsfoil?" Óin asked over her shoulder.

"Indeed," Avatya said, taking out the pouch for the dwarf to look.

"Isn't it a weed?" He asked, taking a deep sniff. "What does it do?"

"Athelas was a very valuable plant until its healing abilities passed from mortal memory," she lamented, looking at the pouch. "It cured even cursed wounds and ought to be respected, not fed to livestock as some villages do."

Óin coughed, and Avatya narrowed her eyes at him.

"You use it as livestock feed?"

"I do not," he said, eyes fixed onto the pouch he held carefully, "but I know of people who do."

" _Mortals_ ," Avatya said crossly. "I have been hindered by athelas and you do not even appreciate it. To answer your question, Master Dwarf, athelas heals the body by fortifying the fëa. It can be used in any manner to great effect, though it lends itself best to elven hands."

"I see," Óin said, and returned the pouch. "What do you use for illness of the skin? Rashes and itches and peeling skin?"

"Many things," Avatya said, and began to draw out the many tied packets she kept in her bag.

* * *

It was another step to fulfilling her debt, Avatya thought, when her conversation with Óin on the properties of betony was halted by the bowls of soup that Bofur began to pass around. It is an indirect betterment to the Free People if Óin eventually passes his knowledge on. It must count for something.

Night had fallen around them, dark except for the firelight and moonlight filtered through scattered clouds.

"He's still not back yet," Bilbo said in front of them, glancing around anxiously as he wrung his hands.

"Who?" Bofur said, and rapped Bombur's hand sharply with his wooden scoop when the dwarf reached for the pot.

"Gandalf."

"Hmm? Might have gotten lost then," he said absently. "Can't imagine how, but it's possible."

Bilbo did not seem assuaged by the dubious theory, but had no chance to worry more when Bofur handed him two more bowls.

"Do me a favour and pass these to the lads, eh? They're not back from pony-watching yet."

Avatya watched the hobbit manoeuvre the two filled bowls across the camp without spilling either and downed the rest of her soup before standing. Óin paused from blowing on his spoon and looked at her curiously.

"I do not believe Bilbo's concern for the Wizard is warranted, but he is right in being concerned," she said to him.

Now that the sun had set, fell things were about. It would be a good time to check if the cause of the farmer's misfortune had lingered in the area.

Avatya listened to the trees as she entered deeper into the woods, treading lightly over thorny undergrowth and fallen branches. There was an unease here that lay over the area, some prickling taint that clung to the shadows and made them darker than they should. She brushed the sense of cobwebs away from her face, and paused.

There was a tree that lay horizontally before her, its roots exposed and branches crushed, as if someone had pushed it over and trod on it. There were still thoughts flickering within the wood, sorrowful and pained. Avatya stepped around it and heard the distant voices of Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli.

"–brown owl, geddit?"

"Hoot twice like a barn own and once like a brown owl," Bilbo repeated, followed there was a rustling of leaves.

Avatya hastened her steps, wrinkling her nose at the sudden stench that pervaded the air. Trolls.

As she neared, firelight came into view from the corner. Kíli was hiding behind a tree, shooting worried looks periodically towards the fire. There was a sword in his hand, held ready. His eyes widened when he saw her.

"What are you doing here?" He whispered, and indicated that she should also hide.

"I heard three of you speaking," she replied, sinking down to a knee. "What happened?"

"Trolls took two of the ponies," he said quickly. "Fíli went to get the others, and I'm making sure Bilbo doesn't get into trouble."

"Where is he?"

Kíli tossed his head in the direction of the fire. The stench thickened, and a gravelly voice spoke.

"Muttons yesterday, mutton t'day, and I'll be darned if it ain't gonna be mutton again tomorrow."

Both of them froze. Silently, Avatya crept forward towards the camp, inhaling as little as she could.

"Quit ye whining," said another voice in disgust. "Ye see anything else around here worth eating?"

"I'm just sayin'," the first troll said, throwing his hands up. "Why're we still 'ere anyway?"

"We're here because the north is freezing, that's why," said the second troll, stirring the pot over the flame with a large, wrinkled hand.

Just behind them, she saw Bilbo, hidden in the shadows by the pen. The ponies were within it, nosing his hands as he tried to undo the ropes.

"You did not give him a knife?" Avatya hissed at the dwarf beside her.

Kíli turned pale. "I–We forgot he never carried one."

A third troll joined the camp as they spoke, his voice shrill and high over the words of the other two.

She swallowed her irritation, and raised herself up. "Do you have an extra blade?"

"Yes, here," He reached into his boot and withdrew a dagger, flipping it as he passed it over so the hilt was pointing at her.

In her hands, the blade seemed incredibly short, roughly the length of one hand.

"I will go to Bilbo," Avatya told him. "You may do as you see fit."

She scaled the tree, leaping from branches with the sure-footedness of an Elf, and watched Bilbo crouch behind the last troll. The troll reached a hand behind him, and Bilbo ducked under it, averting his gaze as the troll scratched himself. He did not look up.

Avatya snapped a twig from the branch she stood with an apology to the tree, and shot it at the hobbit's hair as she would a dart, followed by another one when Bilbo failed to respond from the first. He looked up, jaw clenched. She let him see her face through the shadow of the leaves, and pointed to her borrowed blade. Bilbo nodded and opened his hands. On the silent count of three, she dropped it.

"What wus that?" The cooking troll said, looking up at the trees.

"Can't be anythin'," the second troll said dismissively, not once glancing at his brethren. The other troll grunted and turned his gaze back to the pot.

There was a dull thud as the dagger landed on the soft soil, and Bilbo quickly picked it up. As he straightened, a great hand grasped his torso. Avatya's lips thinned.

"Ooh! Blimey! Look what's come from my hooter," The troll shrieked, looking down at his hand.

Bilbo looked at her through a film of troll snot in abject terror and disgust. He was flung to the ground by the troll and quickly got to his feet, dripping in slime. He was still holding the dagger, and he pointed it at each of the troll in turn when they came too close.

"Whassit?" The troll with the shrill voice exclaimed. "Issit eatable?"

One of them lunged, and yelped as Bilbo nicked his finger with the dagger. Still, he closed his fist around the hobbit, and shook him.

The dagger flew from Bilbo's grasp and clattered against the pot.

"Nalmâd-ta!" Avatya barked, her voice like thunder. A gust of wind put out the flickering flames of the troll's campfire.

The trolls jolted and looked up. Their eyes flickered between the branches, but none saw her.

"Nalmâd-ta," she repeated, throat dry.

The troll holding Bilbo dropped him onto the ground, and the hobbit took the chance to scurry away.

" _Who's there_?" He demanded in a different dialect of the Black Speech, suddenly wary.

The words grated on Avataya's ears.

" _Fell Creature you do not recognise me?_ "

A shadow came over the moon and cast the camp into darkness. One of the troll let out a sharp squeak, cut short by another's elbow.

" _F–Forgive me, my lord, I was not–_ " the troll used a word she did not understand, but the bow was explanatory.

" _Enough_ ," Avatya said, and the troll fell silent. " _Your kin, they do not speak the Great Tongue?_ "

" _They never learnt it,_ " the troll said hesitantly, his gaze on the floor. " _They are… young._ "

" _What is your name?_ "

"Bert, _my lord_."

Avatya paused. This was a troll who had never been in the service of Sauron and Morgoth. Perhaps there was yet hope.

" _There lived Men in a building not far from there. What happened of him?_ "

"We ate him! Skinn–" The youngest troll said happily in Common, ending sharply in a squeal when the second troll slapped him on the head.

Avatya inclined her head. She had expected this news, after all. The ways of trolls were not new.

" _Answer me, all three of you,_ " she said after a moment. " _Were there a choice, would you live Fell or Free?_ "

The trolls shuffled uncertainly on their feet, glancing at one another. The troll who thus far had been silent opened his mouth.

"Baruk Khazâd!"

The roar broke the deathly silence between them, and the clouds rolled back enough for a silver of light to glint off metal weapons. Dwarves sprang from the undergrowth, and came upon the trolls. Bert cast a conflicted look upwards before raising his ladle as a bludgeon to fight them off. The trolls were more defensive than they were aggressive, and all three kept shooting looks into the canopy.

Avatya grit her teeth.

"Stop!"

She leapt off the branch and caught Bert's ladle before it collided with Bofur's skull.

The troll jerked and tensed, shoulders heaving. The other two stopped, one crying out as Fíli rammed his blade into his calf.

The dwarves too, stopped, looking between her and the trolls warily. Those who had fallen were heaved upright by their friends, and for a moment all was silent once more.

"What is the meaning of this, Elf?" Thorin demanded.

Avatya looked at the trolls, looked at Bert. "Your answers?"

"Free," he muttered.

"Free?" Echoed the youngest troll.

The last one began to laugh, great heaving bellows that shook the ground beneath him.

"What difference's there? Ain't we all gonna die as Fell? You're still Fell so whot chance we've got?"

Avatya tightened her grip on the ladle, mouth twisting.

"There is always hope."

The troll snorted. "Nah, 's not me. I die Fell."

"Will!" Bert said, aghast, turning.

Will looked at him. His face twitched and he stumbled forward, collapsing onto the floor. There was a dagger embedded in his back, buried to the hilt.

"Will!" Bert roared, and threw himself at Dwalin with the other troll.

The battle began again, the trolls fighting in earnest now, seeking blood to repay blood.

Avatya stood numbly in the middle of the battlefield, staring at the fallen troll.

"Dawn will take you all!" Gandalf's voice proclaimed, and there was a thunderous crack.

The light of the sun streamed directly into her eyes. The trolls shrieked, and the smell of sizzling flesh reached her nose. The transformation was neither fast nor painless, inevitable though it was as sunlight bathed the clearing.

Bert's single working eye seemed sharply accusing on his stone face when she looked at him for the final time.

* * *

 **It seems when I'm stressed I write crappy OC fanfic, so here's 4.7k words of said crappy OC fanfic instead of something more useful like 4.5k words of economics notes.**

 **sigh.**

 **wORDS:**

 **nalmâd: kinda means 'let go', but perhaps not quite in the sense I meant it in here. Still, I couldn't find a word meaning 'release' properly, so..**

 **-ta = him**

 **Vocab and grammar rules taken from thelandofshadows, which has an excellent section on Black Speech, if anyone's looking.**


	5. Chapter 2 II–Gondolin and Imladris

The dwarves were regrouping, clapping each other's back in hearty celebration of their victory. Avatya paid them no attention, one arm reaching up to Bert's face. She laid her hand on his cheek, and felt the coolness of the stone seep into her fingers.

He had chosen, but his choice had meant nothing to the dwarves, nothing to the wizard.

"There must be a cave nearby," Thorin was saying, and she curled her fingers into a fist, feeling her nails dig into her palms.

She was a Fell thing still, Will had said, so what chance did they have? None, the company had proven. What did it mean for her, that none of the Free People let the trolls live?

Avatya bowed her head, and stilled when a hand came onto her back.

"Uh, thanks for saving me," Bilbo said, and fallen leaves rustled as he shifted his feet. "And for helping with the knife. I, uh, appreciate that."

"You are welcome, Master Hobbit." Her voice is hoarse, an after-effect of speaking the Black Speech for so long. Avatya cleared her expression and turned to face him. The dwarves had already left the clearing, their voices sounding loudly from a little ways off. "You should go with them."

"It's alright," he said with a half-hearted shrug. "They are easy to find."

She concedes his point with a dip of her head. He turned, walking slowly towards the sounds of dwarves. Avatya looked back once more at the statue of Will, and strode firmly behind the hobbit as he led her down the path the others had taken.

There was a cliff-face not too far away, its exposed white rock cracked by weather and plants. The entrance to the cave was a little harder to find—echoes of the dwarves' voices bounced around strangely, leaving their exact positions impossible to pin-point.

They stared at the walls for a little bit until Bilbo made a small _aha_ and slipped under a protruding boulder, where the ground dipped low to form a cavern.

He popped his head out again, nose wrinkling, when she did not follow.

"It's a cave," he said, grimacing. "Do you want to take a look?"

Avatya quirked her lips at him. "Oh no, thank you. The air is… better here."

She did not wish to see those she swore to serve abase themselves by looting as common thieves.

The trolls were not innocent—she knew this. They had eaten sentient beings and felt no remorse from doing so, and had she not been there they would have just as happily feasted Bilbo, as well as any dwarf they were fortunate enough to catch.

Were she anyone else, or were the trolls any less loyalist than they had been, the outcome would have likely been the same; Hobbit supper and a sumptuous Dwarf lunch.

And yet because she was there, and because Bert knew enough about the old tales to _understand_ , they had made a choice. A choice and a silent vow, and she had failed them on both counts when Dwalin killed Will.

Her fingers curled tightly into fists. With a silent cry, she punched a tall pine beside the cliff, unflinching when the bark grazed the back of her hand.

 _I am sorry_ , she said to the trunk, touching her forehead against it. The scent of pine filled her nose as she breathed. _I am sorry_.

The tree was silent, its top branches creaking as a wind blew through them, and Avatya stayed in her position for a long while.

* * *

It was nearly an hour later when the company reemerged, Gandalf at the forefront. Avatya turned her gaze away from the sky and looked down at them.

"Avatya, what do you make of these?" The wizard called, extending a cobwebbed-covered sword towards her.

She stared flatly from the wizard to the sheath before pushing herself off the branch to stare flatly at him up close. When Gandalf didn't relent, she finally reached out to hold the sword at its least sticky portion and ran the hilt through the grass to rid some of the mess.

"Congratulations, it is a sword."

Gandalf huffed, undeterred. "Can you read what it says? I can't make out the Cirth."

Much as Avatya would have liked to refuse, her curiosity stirred and she took a closer look at the sword.

"That is no surprise. These are not Cirth," she said softly, feeling as if the world had for a moment disappeared around her. "There are Gondolinic Runes."

Gondolin.

Wasn't that a surprise. Gondolin, the most magnificent Elven city of the First Age, so well concealed that it could only be revealed by someone who lived within it. Gondolin, which she had rendered into ruins so thoroughly that not a single wall still stood when the battle was over. Gondolin, which burned for days.

She still remembered the scene; a silent city awaiting to celebrate the rising of the sun, gleaming silver-white in the cloudless night. The cheers when they saw the light in the distance, that turned to shouts when they realised it was her, wreathed in the flames of Dragons. The brave, futile attempts to stop her advancing dragons, the fierce battles with the Balrogs, the clash with orcs and goblins.

The breeze carried the scent of fresh snow and grass as she waited through the night for the attack, the legions at her back and Culissë at her side. After, with the city razed, the bodies at her feet and Culissë exhaling blood through the spears in her chest, the air had smelled, peculiarly, only of salt.

Avatya pushed the sword at Gandalf as if it burnt her, but he did not take it. "What does it say?"

With the way he had integrated himself into the place and meddled so freely, it was easy to forget, sometimes, that the wizard had only been in Middle-earth since the middle of the Third Age. He would never have learnt the scripts of the older Ages. She dropped her gaze to the sword's cross-guard, her voice working automatically.

"Turgon aran Gondolin tortha gar a matha i vegil Glamdring gûd daedheloth, dam an Glamhoth. Turgon, king of Gondolin, has and holds the sword Glamdring, Foe of Morgoth's realm, Hammer of the Orcs."

She thrust the sword at Gandalf without looking. He took it and replaced it with a different sheath before she could withdraw her hand.

Avatya jerked her head up with a snarl, but the wizard, blast him, only looked calmly at her.

"Hyrn o gorf Ithluig; ui ni madweg a faug—born from the Maws of Dragons; everlasting I hunger and thirst. Orkhrist." She pulled the sword roughly from its sheath just far enough to see the rest of the inscription. "Nagol e-lýg Orkhrist. Tooth of Snake, the Orc-Cleaver. Is that enough for you, Wizard?"

She pushed the blade back into its sheath without touching the perversion of Dragon tooth that was the sword's grip and threw it at Gandalf, turning away.

Was the swords another reminder that her Oath is futile? That she should have followed her–That she should have gone through the Gates of Night and stayed Fell? Gondolin was not her last sin, but it was among the greatest; yet another indelible stain on her fëa.

And how had the swords come so far to this Troll-hoard from Beleriand now long beneath the sea?

No orc nor goblin would have willingly carried them so far. The deeds of Turgon and Ecthelion were yet fresh in their memories, and the bite of their swords even more so. It had to be a Man or Elf, and furthermore someone discerning enough to pull those two from the ruins.

With a niggling suspicion, Avatya whipped around and stalked up to the wizard, who had just given Orcrist away to Thorin.

"Are there more of such swords in the hoard?" She demanded.

"Three. One of it is of Man-make," Gandalf replied, one bushy brow raising.

Avatya nodded tersely. "I will be back."

Holding her breathe lightly, she slipped past the dwarves on their way out and entered the cave.

It was dimly illuminated away from the entrance but her eyes adjusted quickly. There was gold and jewels piled in overflowing chests, though its size had likely been bigger before the dwarves came. She found the swords in a vase, of all things, covered in broken cobwebs. She ignored the one that was clearly forged by smiths of Men—the hilt was gaudy, twisted in a mockery of vines that was the fashion of Gondor then. It was the other two swords that drew her attention.

She knew that pommel, that particular glint of _that_ metal, had even seen it first-hand herself two Ages and a sea ago.

"Of all swords, you survived."

She understood instantly why Gandalf had not chosen to bring it up. The same bitter, spiteful air still clung to the dark metal, the malice of its forger lingering even so long after the act.

A dark sword for dark deeds; Anguirel.

The other sword had seen finer days. There used to be what seemed to be a leather grip around the hilt, but now it was just coated in a fine, sticky dust. It had no sheath, and its tip scratched a gorge into the bottom of the vase as she picked it up, grimacing at the webs.

 _Galadui. I am the sword of the Golden. Ever I shine in the dark_.

A sear of heat surged through the sword. Avatya snorted despite herself.

"Just like your master," she told it, and grasped Anguirel with her other hand. It did not feel right to leave them both here, after the efforts someone had gone to recover them. Though why the person would recover Anguirel, she could not guess. Perhaps they were not familiar with the blade and had mistaken it for that of another Gondolindrim Lord.

After a long moment, the heat receded, and she carried both swords as she left the cave, meeting Gandalf's curious look by raising Galadui horizontally to his face.

"Will you carry this?"

His brows furrowed and the wizard looked over the blade at her with an unspoken question.

"It belonged to Glorfindel in Gondolin. He will never accept it from me."

"That is sadly true." He sighed and wrapped the sword in a bundle of cloth so its sharp blade was covered.

"There is nothing _sad_ about it. It is as it is." She did not give him Anguirel; the wizard would not have consented to carrying its malice.

A dark blade forged with dark intentions, now in the hands of Fell. It was a little fitting.

Her lips curled at the thought as she clipped the sheath to her belt. It would be given to Elrond as soon as she saw him.

Bilbo too bore a new knife at his side, one that hung from his hip to his knees. It was a good length for him, though he looked uncomfortable with its weight and presence.

There was a purposeful rustle in the forest, the sound of something sliding over fallen leaves and grass and many small feet pattering on the ground.

"Something is approaching," she said, and the dwarves stopped their conversations to listen.

"I don't hear anythin'," Bofur said, after a moment.

"No, shh." Nori cocked his head. "She's right."

"Everyone stay together! Arm yourselves!" Thorin barked.

The dwarves grouped into a semicircle with Bilbo at the back, peering into the dense forage. For a moment all was silent except for the slide of steel against metal and wood, and their cautious breaths.

There was a crash, and then–

"Thieves! Fire! Murder!"

A rabbit-sleigh bounced into the clearing, so suddenly that it cut across their midst before the dwarves could begin to react. Avatya saw the occupant of the sleigh and relaxed, lowering her hands.

"Radagast!" Gandalf exclaimed, effectively saving the new wizard from Dwalin's impending axe. "It's Radagast the Brown, one of my order."

The company subsided, and she shook her head in mild disbelief. Radagast was lucky that he hadn't been shot at, seeing as how Kíli's hands were almost trembling as he held lowered his bow. They eyed the Brown Wizard with no small amount of interest. He was, perhaps, the only other wizard they had ever seen.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Gandalf asked.

"I was looking for you, Gandalf," Radagast said, a tremor in his voice. "Something's wrong—something's terribly, terribly wrong. Oh–"

He broke off with a blink, looking around as if suddenly aware there was an audience. His eyes roamed over the thirteen dwarves and one hobbit with the distantly focused look that characterised his face, and then landed on Avatya.

"Hello, Melegoriel."

The tang of blood came sharply into her mouth, and Avatya became distantly aware that she had bitten into her lip.

"Greetings Radagast. I go by Avatya now."

Her voice was cold, but if the wizard noticed he gave no sign of it. Already his fleeting attention was returned to Gandalf, who was frowning heavily at him.

There was no point in being angry at Radagast; he was just so scattered that it was almost a miracle he could keep his incarnate self alive for so long without supervision. She sighed heavily, as if the act itself could dispel the unwanted associations drawn by the name. He had meant no harm and she would treat it as such, for it was true; the last time they had met was on a distant shore and she had borne the name then. There was hardly a chance to have taught him better since.

The dwarves were looking at her in much the same manner as they had when she had called for the fight at Trollshaws to stop.

Being reminded of Trollshaws did not help her mood much, and their looks only served as a reminder that there was plenty of suspicion building since then.

She could sense an unpleasant confrontation later.

"…perhaps we could step away for a moment," Gandalf said gently to Radagast, who had stuttered to a stop and now seemed only to be deep in thought, leading his brethren away to a more isolated spot a distance away.

Bilbo cleared his throat as the tension grew thick in the clearing.

"Who are you?" Thorin said, eyes hard.

"I am who I have said I am: Avatya and no one more." She raised her chin, acutely aware that no one had yet put their weapons away after Radagast's arrival.

"Tell me, what Elf would speak the Black Speech, and so fluently nonetheless?"

"One who grew up in darker days," she said. How to assure a suspicious dwarf that _she_ was trustworthy? The thought could have made Avatya laugh, were it another circumstance. Unlike Sauron, she had never delighted in falsehoods and trickery, and found his pleasure in befriending and betraying his victims more trouble than it was worth.

Of the Fell triad, Avatya was the one least inclined to lie.

And yet were she to tell Thorin the truth he wanted to hear, she had very little doubt that he would have her gone from the quest. Her Oath was a heavy thing and could not be retracted on the whim of a dwarf, even if he was a king, and she had, in a sense, already given her word.

Leaving the quest was not an option.

"You who are born in the Third, cannot understand the shadows of the First Age," she said, turning her body so that she was completely facing Thorin, looking him in the eyes with the full force of her focus.

He crossed his arms.

"I have heard more dark tongues than Sindarin in my youth, of which the Black Speech is but only a minor minor dialect." Avatya paused. "I pray that you will never hear the tongues of such spiders or bats, Thorin son of Thráin."

The dwarves murmured lowly among themselves, fingers flying through the foreign signs of Iglishmêk. Thorin's face remained cold.

Avatya returned his look impassively.

Every word was true, and he would find no wrong in them.

A distant howl cut through the silence. Avatya jerked her head up, eyes narrowed sharply.

"Was that a wolf?" Bilbo asked, looking around wildly. "There are wolves here?"

"Wolves?" Bofur repeated, raising his mattock. "Oh no, that is not a wolf."

"It is worse," Avatya agreed, backing up the slopes of the mounds around them. "Ware!"

They turned to face the direction she pointed, and the warg that had crept upon the mound growled, low and resounding. It reached them in one large pounce. Someone shoved Bilbo away from under it, and Thorin dispatched it with a stroke from Orcrist.

Avatya whirled around, and the warg that had been preparing a pounce instead charged upwards, snarling. She met its open maw with her arm, and jammed her shackle between its teeth. The momentum of the warg pushed her over, and both of them tumbled down. The warg's breath was hot, its rough tongue scrabbling over her hand in its mouth as she kept its sharp teeth on the smooth band of her shackle.

It stood over her at the base of the mound. Warm drool dripped from her arm to her chest, and Avatya grimaced, kicking up into its ribs. The warg yelped, and then its legs went soft and its whole weight crashed onto her without warning.

An arrow protruded from its eye.

Avatya turned her head up and saw the upside down faces of the dwarves, in particular that of Kíli and his bow.

She gave him a grateful nod and lifted the warg's body aside with her legs to get up in a smooth motion. The wizards had returned from their isolated discussion at the sound of the fight. Gandalf gave her a once-over and hurried over to Thorin.

"Who did you tell about your quest beyond your kin?" He asked urgently.

"No one," Thorin said, his gaze flickering to Avatya. "What are these warg-scouts doing here?"

"Hunting you," Gandalf said grimly. "We must leave now."

"We can't!" Ori cried in dismay. "The ponies are gone; they've bolted!"

Avatya muttered something unpleasant about the weakness of farm horses, glaring at the wargs. A spark of rage shot through her—she lost Bryony. She did not take kindly to losing what was _hers_.

"I'll draw them off," Radagast suggested, hands tightening around his wooden staff. His eyes were clear and bright.

"These are Gundabad wargs," Gandalf said, gesturing. "They'll run you down."

"These are Rhosgobel rabbits," Radagast said, his eyes gaining a wild light that made their blue an entirely unnatural shade. "I'd like to see them try."

"Is there space for one more on your sleight?" Avatya asked, ignoring Gandalf's sudden stare.

Radagast gave her a once-over. "You are light enough, Avariel. You may come along if that is your wish."

Orcs under the service of Sauron would never hesitate to kill her for her betrayal. The instinct was bred into them, and nowadays there were few orcs who whose ancestors had not once been under his command. If she went with Radagast, the pursuit would be drawn from the dwarves. Avatya hesitated, paying the wrong name little notice. .

"No."

She could not part with the quest, and there was no assurance Radagast would ever encounter the dwarves again if she went with him.

"Very well," the wizard said, unconcerned, and stepped onto his sleigh. He directed his voice to the rabbits. "You've heard me! Go!"

The rabbits burst into action. For a brief moment the sleigh stood still, then the ropes grew taut and it lurched forward.

Gandalf waited until the other wizard was out of sight before he jerked his head back to them. "Come on."

The dwarves hurried after him, ducking behind rocky outcrops as they go, the only shelter there was on the open grassy field. Bilbo had drawn his small knife, holding it gingerly before him. Avatya fell into step beside him.

"This way," she said to him, adjusting his grip with one hand. "Do not lock your wrist."

"Thanks," he whispered back as they ran, holding his sword in a way less likely to drop or damage it.

He would need lessons before he could wield it in a way that would threaten a foe. If the dwarves do not bring up this point, she would raise it to Gandalf. Surely he would rather not see his precious Hobbit defenceless on this quest he dragged him into.

"This way," the wizard said, pointing at another scattering of boulders a distance away.

Elsewhere, she heard Radagast taunting the warg-riders' leader, calling into question—of all things—the state of the warg's pelt and teeth, as if their oral hygiene was truly his sole concern. A raging growl was the warg's response, snapping at the air as if it was the wizard's head.

Then she ducked behind a rock and lost sight of the hunters and wizard both.

A wheeze came from overhead, and the sound of large claws tapping on hard rock. Avatya felt a small burst of relief that they were downwind, and edged away from the rock to see a warg-rider upon it, looking around and sniffing deeply.

Her gaze fell to Kíli, the sole user of a bow. The dwarf glanced at Thorin and received a terse nod, then crept forward, notching an arrow.

The first one sank into the warg's shoulder, and it turned to them at once with a growl. The orc upon it turned, a grin spreading on his gnarled face when he saw the dwarves.

Far too slowly, Kíli shot a second arrow at the warg as it scrambled down. It flew true and straight into its opened jaws, silencing its death cry.

The orc jumped from his mount before it collapsed, and the sound of the battle that followed was loud and echoing.

The hunting howls in the distance had stopped. Avatya's breath caught in her throat. The warg-riders would be upon the dwarves in minutes.

"Move!" Gandalf shouted, and the dwarves fled.

Avatya tightened her bag against her shoulders and took off in the opposite direction.

She knew where Gandalf was taking the company and the path he meant to take here. She just had to keep the orcs away from Imladris' hidden entrance.

The wind roared in her ears as she put as much distance between herself and the company. The dwarves were shouting, yelling, surrounded on all sides by the wargs. Avatya flicked her eyes westwards. _So help me if you want these fools to succeed_ –

The winds shifted abruptly. She saw the wargs still, turning their heads to track the scent of their most hated foe.

"Skai!" Avatya roared, feeling something tear in her throat. She swallowed the blood in her mouth and touched her hand to her shoulder before raising it in a mocking salute to the Dark Lord. "Uruk-glob laz goth."

The leader of the warg-riders, distinguished by the bony spines of his vest, pointed at her with his sword and called something indistinct to his pack. The lead warg howled, and as one the pack sprang forward.

Avatya turned and ran. Her feet flew over the yellowed grass in long strides, but wargs were faster. Her only good decision had been to put a great deal of distance between them first, but now that distance was eaten rapidly away by the wargs' loping strides.

She did not need to look back to know that they were gaining. The orcs were shouting, taunting, their voices ever clearer.

" _Traitor! Where do you flee? You are abandoned_."

Their speech retained more of the original Black Speech than the trolls' debased form, and was all the more terrible for it. Her hand fluttered over Anguirel's hilt, and for a moment, all she could think of was stopping to fight, to kill, to regain her feared title. Avatya clenched her jaw, pulling her fingers away from the metal.

There was an elven patrol riding towards her, spears and armour glinting in the sun. Her heart leapt. Another minute and she would be in the range of their arrows. A warg snapped at her bag, a glob of saliva landing on her hand. She took another step forward, and stopped. The warg and its rider shot past her and she turned to avoid the rider behind her, bending low to avoid its curved sword.

The bellow of an elven horn echoed around the plain, and the warg that was turning back for a second attack dropped to the ground, and arrow sunk deep in its forehead.

The orc leader snarled at the sight of his followers calling dead alongside him and lunged forward with his sword.

" _The Elves cannot save you always,_ " he said, and Avatya met his sword with her shackle, turning it aside before it slid off the band and cut into flesh. " _The Elves will soon fall and you will die with them. Our time has come!_ "

She kicked him in torso before he could raise his sword and leapt backwards. The orc stumbled away, creating just enough distance between them that an arrow could whistle past Avatya's ear to sink into his eye. Elven horses thudded past her, a clear, familiar voice calling out commands as they struck down the fleeing orcs and wargs one by one.

She exhaled shakily, frowning at her ripped sleeves and the patch of warg drool on her chest. Her fingers trembled as the adrenaline left her system. Avatya closed them into fists, and forced herself to calm. When she reopened her hands, they were perfectly still once more.

A Elven rider stopped behind her, casting her in his tall shadow.

Avatya turned, the corner of her lips pulling upwards when she saw the rider's grey eyes shine under the helm.

"My greetings and gratitude to you and your timely arrival," she said to Elrohir with a small bow. Her voice was raspy, a metallic tang still lingering on her tongue.

"You looked to be in a little trouble." The elf pulled off his helmet and shook out his dark hair with a warm smile. "We hurried when we heard the howling."

"And for that you have my thanks on behalf of my companions," she said, "since they will never offer such."

"Your companions?" Elrohir said, straightening to scan the field with narrowed eyes. "The same people who left you alone to fend off the orcs?"

"They are not to blame. I ran off by myself," she told him, taking the wind from his righteous indignation. "It would have defeated the purpose entirely if they had come with me. Ah! Greetings, Elrond, Elladan."

The Lord of Imladris smiled at her.

"Well met," he said. "Are you going by a different name since we last met?"

"Indeed I am. I am called Avatya now."

Elrond's smile turned a little sad, but he made no comment on her choice. His sons merely nodded in thoughtful silence.

"Come then, Avatya," he said, offering her his forearm. "Let us return to Imladris and I will see to any of your injuries."

"I have gained no recent injury save that to my clothes and a little tiredness." Avatya clasped his arm, pulling herself onto Elrond's white horse to sit behind him.

"That is good to hear," was the response, followed by a soft command of "Forward."

She spotted a lock of gold as Elrond and his sons closed ranks behind the rest of the Elven patrol and twisted her lips. Carefully, she lowered her bag such that it rested against the side of her thigh and blocked most of Anguirel from sight.

It did not escape Avatya's attention that Elrond was the last rider in the patrol, even though by all formations he as the lord and commander should have been at the forefront or in the middle. A surge of gratitude welled in her for this small consideration. Only now, riding behind him and between Elladan and Elrohir, did she feel the exhaustion catch up with her.

It had been a very long day.

* * *

 **The orcas came out of the ocean to tell me I need to stop, but my sinning hands continue sinning.**

 **Thus, 4.7k words of this fanfic is born, again. Instead of something more productive. like application essays.**

 **thanks, brain.**

* * *

 **Linguistic Stuff (not in any particular order):**

 **Glamdring's** inscription is exactly as it says (though, anyone knows if it's _hyrn_ or _hürn_?), but I adjusted **Orcrist's** one a little bit.

[...madweg a suig] is the original, but I changed it to [...madweg a faug] because _faug_ is actually a word meaning thirsty in Sindarin, while suig is somehow derived from Quenya _soica_ and _fauca_ and I have no idea why Salo went with a neo-Sindarin word when there is actually a Sindarin word. The meaning is unchanged though.

 **Galadui** – _S._ everlasting light. A name I made up for Glorfindel's sword. Not too sure if it's technically Uigalad or Galadui, but I thought Galadui looked better so there it is.

 **Gondolin** – Elven city in Beleriand, during the First Age. Think Minas Tirith but bigger, grander, and impossible to find.

 **Anguirel** – The sword of Maeglin, son of Dark Elf Eöl. He betrayed the location of Gondolin to Morgoth in return for some booty, and was killed when he was thrown off Gondolin's walls.

 **Melegoriel** – well, that'd be telling. ;)

 **Skai! Uruk-glob laz goth** – _BS. Oi! Orc-filth hear your master!_ or thereabouts. Took some liberty with the _hear_ bit since there's no word for it, so I derived it from Primitive Elvish. Idk man my Black Speech is not the best.

am I a nerd yet. Oh and if anyone wants the sources to the things hit me up.


	6. Chapter 3 I–Elves of Rivendell

The smooth gait of the horse lulled her into a trance. Avatya blinked, coming back to herself as Elrond passed the stone sentinels that watched over the bridge to Imladris.

The dwarves were already here, huddled into a protective circle with Bilbo at its centre and weapons raised against the ring of elven riders circling onto the yard. Avatya quelled the relief at seeing them all unharmed, but let a smile curl her lips at the sight of the dwarves defending Bilbo. From the amusement she sensed emanating from Elrond, he must have felt similarly.

"Avatya!" Bilbo exclaimed when he saw her. "You're alright!"

"Quite so," she said, as Elrond stopped his horse to let her get off.

"We saw the wargs turn away," Bilbo said, hands fluttering nervously before him. "Where did you go?"

"I got lost." Avatya turned her head as she dismounted to hide her surprise at his worry.

When she looked again, the hobbit had raised his brows in incredulity, as did the dwarves who overheard her. Dwalin snorted and shook his head, turning to mutter something to Balin.

"It was very fortunate that I came across Elrond's patrol before the orcs caught up." She pasted on a blank smile, serenely ignoring Bilbo's slow head tilt.

The dwarves looked to Elrond and Gandalf, who had now ended their conversation in Sindarin.

"Welcome Thorin son of Thráin," the Elf-lord said regally, as Thorin made his way to the forefront of the group.

Around them the riders are dismounting and making their way away as pages came to collect the reins of the horses. Elrohir gave her shoulder a gentle pat as he passed with Elladan, and Avatya felt her smile slip into something more genuine.

"I don't believe we've met," Thorin said neutrally, making a show of looking Elrond up and down.

Avatya stared very hard into his back.

"You have your grandfather's bearing," Elrond said calmly, and regarded the group. To Lindir, who had been standing quietly at the stairs, he said, "Have the food prepared for our guests, and house them in the eastern rooms."

"What did he say?" Glóin demanded, raising his axe. "Does he offer us insult?"

Elrond straightened, the only sign of his exasperation, and Gandalf cut in quickly to assure the dwarves of the Elf-lord's intention.

They turned to whisper suspiciously to each other in Khuzdul, which Avatya had never learnt, before Glóin turned around.

"Ah in that case," he said gruffly, "lead on."

" _If you are indeed sheltering the Enemy,_ " came a cold voice, " _Please keep her away from my rooms._ "

With a sinking feeling, Avatya looked up to see Glorfindel lingering at the top of the stairs. Elrond's eyes flashed, and he said sharply, " _Avatya is not the enemy, Glorfindel._ "

" _My request holds._ " The Elf-lord turned without a glance in her direction and walked away with quick, fierce strides.

Gandalf looked pained, his hand pausing on Galadui's covered hilt. Avatya deflated, looking away at a waterfall in the distance. Her arms had never felt this heavy.

"Come," Elrond said in Westron, spreading his arms. "Let yourselves be rejuvenated with some food and rest, and know that all of you are welcome in my House."

* * *

The meal was served in one of the side halls, away from the main dining hall that was closer to the central buildings further inside the city.

Avatya was seated at the long table beside Bilbo, watching in silent amusement as the dwarves picked and grumbled at the bowls of vegetables before them.

At the table on the dais, Gandalf was recounting his findings in the Troll-hoard to Elrond whilst Thorin prodded the leaves of his salad with a fork, a certain look in his eye that seemed to suggest he'd much rather be stabbing the fork into _someone_. Clearly here was one who did not count his arrival to Imladris as fortunate.

"Glamdring," Elrond said, looking at the blade the wizard handed him with something unreadable in his eyes.

Abruptly, she remembered that Turgon was his blood-kin and bowed her head.

"It is a fine blade," the Elf-lord said finally, pushing Glamdring back into its sheath and returning the sword to Gandalf. "Its make is unlike any seen in Middle-earth after the drowning of Beleriand."

"We also found Orcrist," Gandalf said, indicating Thorin, who nodded in acknowledgement but made no move to hand his new sword over, "and…"

The wizard trailed off, looking straight at Avatya as he laid out the final sword, wrapped in a cloak, on the table.

"'Gold is he who wields Galadui, that shines everlasting in the dark'," Elrond read, tilting his head to see the script etched in gold along the fuller. He looked up sharply. "Is this–?"

Gandalf nodded solemnly. "It is indeed Lord Glorfindel's. Will you give it to him?"

"You came by these in a Troll-hoard?" Elrond asked with narrowed eyes, laying Galadui on his lap. "These are not common spoils."

"There are only these three swords," Gandalf said, spreading his hands. "Avatya was the one who identified this blade and the others. I myself only recognised the make of Glamdring and Orcrist."

"There may yet be other weapons there," Avatya said, looking at Elrond over Bilbo's head. "There was an axe I did not examine; Rog of Gondolin was known to have used both mace and axe in battle. If the elf who carried these away after the battle had already taken the swords of two lords and a king, he may have well taken the weapons of the other lords."

Elrond nodded slowly. "I will send men to investigate this hoard."

Glóin made a short, anguished noise before he began to choke, causing Bofur and Óin beside him to thump his back heavily.

"We have a deposit," Bofur was saying in a hushed voice, almost inaudibly. "The leaf-eaters can't get them all."

"Buggering greedy elves," Nori said, with a wink in Avatya's direction and a grin that belied his words when he saw her looking at him—and his hand that was in the middle of tucking a wine bottle into his coat. "'Course they can't keep their hands to themselves once they heard of the treasure."

Avatya gave him a flat stare.

A gleam of metal caught her attention, and she looked down to see Bilbo gently unsheathing his small knife, looking wonderingly at it.

"I wouldn't bother laddie," Balin said, causing the hobbit to look up quickly. "Swords are named for the great deeds they do in battle."

"So you're saying my sword has never seen battle?" The hobbit asked, flipping the blade.

"Well…" Balin smiled, not unkindly, "I'm not actually sure that is a sword. Perhaps a letter-opener for one of those Gondolin Lords they were talking about."

Bilbo frowned, turning to look at Avatya.

"Balin exaggerates, but it is unlikely for this sword to be used widely in battle," she said. "It is a dagger to be drawn only when all other defences have failed."

Such was the case as Gondolin fell.

Avatya looked down at her plate, appetite evaporating.

"What about yours?" Bilbo asked, indicating the sword laid across her lap with his chin.

"It is a foul sword," she said to him and Balin, dropping a hand over its sheath. "It is not named for valour in battle but for its metal, and known for its maker and wielder."

"What's it made of?" Balin asked interestedly, peering at its black hilt.

"Star-iron," Avatya answered. "It is forged from a meteorite."

The dwarves listening in craned their necks for a better look over the table.

"May I have a look?"

Her lips thinned, but she swallowed the rejection at her lips. A closer look may, perhaps, stifle future interest in Anguirel, which would be all for the better. She lifted the sword with one hand and passed it to Balin, who unsheathed it for a look at the blade as others leaned on.

"It is of good craft," he admitted. If he had felt the sword's darkness he did not mention it before passing Anguirel back to her. "Though it feels a little unfriendly when I hold it."

"That it is, Master Dwarf," Avatya said grimly. "That it is very much."

"Oi, play something faster, will ya?" Nori said suddenly to the harpist behind him, rubbing his ears. "It feels like I'm in a funeral."

"Alright lads, there's only one thing for it," Bofur said, pushing himself up with a grin.

He stepped onto the table, and Avatya relocated her goblet to the floor behind her before his shoes overturned it. The dwarf, on his part, seemed remarkably unconcerned that the tips of his boots was upon Glóin's salad.

"There's… an…" he began, dragging the words out loudly, "inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn…"

The song was quite obviously one that the dwarves were familiar with, for they began to bang their fists and cutleries on the table in time with the beat. Thorin, who had removed himself from the table on the dais, tapped his feet to the song behind their tables, a small grin on his lips and a light in his eyes.

Food began to fly.

Avatya edged backwards, twirling her half-empty goblet around her fingers as she relocated herself from the hazard zone. Bilbo dropped his head to the table, right before a glob of potatoes flew over him to mark the statue by Lindir.

The meal took a long while to end.

* * *

When the dwarves begun at last to leave the hall after several more songs, Avatya rose and moved to the dais, where Elrond and Gandalf were standing. The wizard made to follow the last few dwarves, Thorin and Balin, but he paused at the centre of the hall to turn around.

Avatya glanced at him and the dwarves hovering at the doorway, and turned to Elrond.

"There was a fourth sword in the Troll-hoard," she began, holding Anguirel out to him. "I ask that you keep it in your armoury."

The Elf-lord stilled as he grasped the hilt, and sharp, deep eyes met her own.

"There are only two swords of the First Age that are forged with star-iron and Anglachel was reforged into Gurthang, bane of Glaurung," he mused. "The other sword is stolen by Maeglin, who was said to have taken no other blade until his death."

Avatya exhaled and nodded once, slowly, under his penetrating gaze.

"You bring me Anguirel, the mate of Anglachel."

Elrond closed the distance between them with a graceful step.

"I cannot keep this sword in my armoury," he said softly in Sindarin, unspoken apologies lingering behind his words as he closed her hands on its sheath. "Were it to contain only Eöl's dark heart I may have concealed it, but there are twin malice in this sword that will never yield to nor abide by any hand that wields it. It cannot be kept in Imladris."

Avatya nodded again, stiffly. "I understand."

She clipped the sword to her belt again, feeling its weight like an anchor by her side. She could not abandon the sword outside the city, for it was a blade that would well-serve the purposes of orcs were it found. Elrond would not keep it in Imladris for fear its evil would taint the land and its protections.

It must be carried with her.

With heavy steps she left the hall, turning away from where the dwarves were gathered with Gandalf, and slipped into a corridor.

The sky was dark, the sun long drawn below the horizon. Stars glimmered between grey clouds, and Avatya counted five of the seven stars that formed the Valar's warning to Morgoth. She went first to her room, tucked away into the lower reaches of the city and carved into the cliffs, well away from the living spaces of Elf and Elf-lords alike. The corridor was devoid of lamps, but Avatya knew the path well and could see by the soft glow of white marble in starlight.

The door was closed and for a moment she thought it had been locked, but it swung open easily when she pulled. The room too, was dark, with a single unlit lamp upon the wall by the door. This was, however, by choice, and no fault of Elrond's hospitality. Avatya did not mind the dark, for she could see well enough and the absence of light meant that no one would be drawn to her room. Few of Elrond's household knew that their lord had all but given her a permanent residence in his city, and few needed to know.

It was a matter of safety, on both her part and theirs.

She pulled the cover off the bed, sending up a faint haze of dust, and gave the cover a good shake outside the window before folding it. There was a new dress in the wardrobe when she checked, and Avatya snorted at its cream-and-blue folds and the wing-like embroidery that decorated the hem. It also sported a new pair of boots, a cloak, and leggings.

Avatya bit her lip, running her fingers down the soft fabrics. Elrond must have had them made after the last time she'd been to Imladris, during the Eriador's Fell Winter.

She turned abruptly from the wardrobe and went to draw up a bath. She had been carrying a week's worth of travel filth for long enough.

* * *

Bilbo hummed cheerfully to himself, a pipe between his lips and his belly comfortably full from the second breakfast he had enjoyed in one of the other dining halls. There'd been more meat at this one half-meal than there was during the three full meals yesterday, and he let a smirk curl his lips at the prank the elves were pulling on the dwarves.

It was very kind of Lord Elrond, he decided, to have told him about the other dining hall, as well as showing him to the kitchens where he may get more food. Clearly here was an elf who knew just the way to satisfy a hobbit.

Seated on a bench in a truly marvellous courtyard (Hamfast would surely die of joy at some of the plants the elves here grew in the southern gardens), free from the dwarves and their grumbling, and well away from the dirt and dust of the road, Bilbo Baggins was truly a very satisfied hobbit.

It was not that the journey thus far was entirely bad, oh no. While he felt that the sound of warg howls and the sight of the orcs' twisted, scarred, face would never leave his mind, there had still been some bright spots. Bofur, for all that he had seemed unkind during the handkerchief incident, had also been friendly to him and welcomed the hobbit into his band of brothers. Balin had offered to give him some lessons in sword fighting, though Bilbo had yet to take him up on that.

Perhaps he should. Erebor was a long way away, and there were going to be more orcs and other foul things along the way. Simply knowing how to hold a sword isn't going to do much.

Bilbo shuddered, remembering the terror of being caught by the trolls, of seeing their huge, leering faces just before him, of being handled as if he was nothing more than piece of chicken drumstick, just another mouthful of food.

And then Avatya had saved him, speaking to the trolls in the language Thorin called Black Speech.

The sound of it was terrible, had sent goosebumps up his skin at the time. If Bilbo hadn't seen Avatya in the trees before that moment, he would have thought it was some other, greater evil. Such was that voice's power.

He'd hidden in the bush when Avatya spoke again to the trolls, half-terrified that the trolls would reach up and grab her as he laid useless and weaponless beneath the leaves. Instead, the trolls had faltered—bowed, even—and deferred in all the ways he could see.

Bilbo had seen her face when Dwalin killed the first troll, and he wished he hadn't. For a briefest moment there was only anguish, as if the dwarf had struck herself instead of the troll. Afterwards, when the fight was over and the dwarves were only keen on congratulating themselves for their victory, Bilbo didn't feel it was right, somehow, if he had went with them. Not when the victory had pained Avatya so much.

As a gentlehobbit, he'd felt it his duty to deliver his gratitude to her directly and offer what comfort he could. He didn't know what had happened between her and the trolls, and unlike some of the dwarves he didn't believe that she was in league with the trolls and orcs either.

Bilbo didn't quite understand what was going on.

He had thought that Avatya's mood would be recovered when they reached Rivendell. After all, she was an Elf and it was a city of her kind. In fact, with her dark hair, she could have been a kin of one of the elves here, perhaps even Elrond himself.

And yet for all that Avatya had returned to them on the back of the Elf-lord's horse, they'd all seen her flinch when the blond elf had spoken at the entrance.

Bilbo wondered who that elf was. Blond hair was uncommon in the city, and he distantly recalled it being a trait of one of the High Elves who'd gone to Valinor. It had been a while since he last read his mother's journals, but she had also mentioned a notable blond elf during her stay in Rivendell.

Whoever he was, he had been utterly furious. The elf had seemed to light up with his fury, eyes burning, voice so cold the hobbit could have cooled tea with it. Bilbo regretted letting his old Sindarin lessons go to waste; he would have liked to understand what the elf said that had made both Elrond and Gandalf bristle, and Avatya to seem so utterly resigned.

Unbidden, his mind returned to that first night he had eaten with her and glimpsed the metal bands on her wrists. Protection and a reminder, she called them. Bilbo had at first thought them some elvish bracelet, but he had seen no other in Rivendell bearing anything similar. His other guess was absurd—why put shackles on someone and let them go?

"Good morning," he called through his musing, and the Elf who was walking down the corridor paused, turning around.

"Good morning, Bilbo," Avatya returned, with a smile he was coming to recognise as genuine.

Bilbo shuffled himself to one side of the bench, and Avatya came over, dropping gracefully beside him.

"How do you find the city?" She asked, making no sign that she was bothered by his smoke.

"It's very peaceful," he replied, and waved the end of his pipe about. "It feels as if I could live here a year and only think a month has passed."

There seemed to be nothing to mark the passing of time in Rivendell, and Bilbo felt as if he had stepped into a hidden nook where time flowed on around them without touching the city or its immortal residents. He felt too young to fully appreciate the sensation now. Perhaps this would be a nice place to live when he was older.

"Timelessness is a trait of Imladris and also of Lothlórien," Avatya agreed.

"Have you been there?" Bilbo asked, feeling foolish as soon as the question left his lips. She was an Elf of some great age, of course she'd likely been to the elven cities still remaining.

Avatya frowned lightly. "In a sense. I have been to the woods before Lothlórien was ruled by Galadriel, but I have not gone there since."

Bilbo nodded, although he had no idea who Galadriel was and when she began her rule. "What were the woods like?"

"There were no mellyrn then," said the Elf, "so it was a forest of green that spanned the entire land east of the mountains. There were Ents—Tree Shepherds in the common tongue—who wandered freely through the land, guarding–"

She broke off abruptly. Bilbo looked at her, but her gaze was fixed on the blond elf approaching them. He had a sword beside him, with a hilt as gold as his hair, and he bore no expression at all when he stopped at the window by their bench.

His eyes flicked to Bilbo and he spoke in accented Westron.

"Hail, Halfling."

"Good morning," Bilbo said, with a dip of his head. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

"Glorfindel, at yours," the elf replied, and shifted his intense gaze to Avatya.

"How did you come by that sword, Achadelos?"

Bilbo felt Avatya still at the name.

"It was found in a Troll-hoard," she replied evenly, matching his tone.

Glorfindel made a sound in the back of his throat, glaring at the sword by Avatya's side so intently that Bilbo feared the sword might catch fire. "It suits you."

The way he said it made the sentence distinctly not a complement. Bilbo knew nothing about Avatya's new-found sword save what she revealed at dinner two days prior, but her small flinch was telling enough.

He opened his mouth, ready to tell off Glorfindel for coming to them and offering insult, but Avatya spoke first.

"It does," she agreed softly, eyes downcast.

"Wield it," Glorfindel said, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Up close, Bilbo recognised it as the one Gandalf had presented to Elrond. "I challenge thee to single combat."

"What?" Bilbo exclaimed, refusing to quail under Glorfindel's sudden burning gaze. "That's–!"

He sputtered, momentarily lost for the right words to describe just how ridiculous

Avatya was looking up, flame-bright eyes meeting Glorfindel's icy blue.

"I will not."

Glorfindel smiled. It was a terrible thing to behold on his fair face.

"Come forth, thou coward, and fight with thine own hand," he began, a quality to his voice that made it seem as if he was reciting something. "Den-dweller, wielder of thralls, liar and lurker, foe of Gods and Elves, come, for I would see thy craven face."

Avatya seemed to have turned into a statue, so still was she.

Bilbo felt his concern rise when she remained unmoving for several long moments.

"I am not he," she said a last, voice barely louder than a whisper. "And I will not fight you."

Glorfindel's entire demeanour seemed to change, yet his expression remained the same blankness.

"Very well," he said, drawing his sword.

Bilbo startled, crying out in shock when the Elf swung his sword at them.

The tip of the blade stopped with deadly stillness just under Avatya's chin. The Elf's expression had not changed, and now she only stared up into Glorfindel's eyes.

Bilbo was very much out of his depth between these two Elves whose history seemed to go so far back into stories and legends of his childhood. Yet he cannot stand by and let his traveling companion, who he could call a friend, get threatened so. Neither his Baggins nor Took side held well with abandoning people like so.

"Wait a minute! What are you doing?" He exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "You come here unprovoked and threaten us when we did nothing wrong—is this the hospitality of Elves?"

"Apologies, Master Hobbit. I see you are not informed of your traveling companion." The Elf made no move to remove his sword. "Why did you not tell him, Achadelos? "

"Lord Glorfindel!"

Never had Bilbo been as glad to hear that voice. Gandalf hurried over to them, his eyes hard.

Glorfindel made a soft, derisive sound, sheathing his his sword in one fluid motion.

"Mithrandir," he said, with the barest dip of his head, and strode away with long, predatory steps.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo said in relief, breathing easy now that Glorfindel was gone and he had another ally here.

The wizard smiled at him, but Bilbo could read the worry in his eyes. Both of them looked at Avatya, who stood up.

"Excuse me, Master Bilbo," she said distantly, her eyes looking at him but not quite _seeing_ him, and bowed more deeply than he'd seen her do in the entire time they've been together.

Without another word, she brushed past Gandalf and walked to the other edge of the garden, climbing easily over the banister of the stairs and leapt through the window of the corridor.

Bilbo's heart jumped and he rushed over, Gandalf at his heels. Both of them peered over the railing to see a dark-haired figure catch onto a pillar in the lower levels and swing into the building.

"Tell me what happened before I came," Gandalf said, brows furrowed and eyes grim. "What did Lord Glorfindel do?"

Bilbo took a deep draught of his pipe, borrowing some sense of calm from his Longbottom Leaf before he could speak.

"We were talking about Lothlórien and its forest until Glorfindel came." He tilted his head. "What does Achadelos mean, Gandalf?"

"He called Avatya that?" The wizard said sharply, straightening. "It means a very dreadful thing and Glorfindel should know better."

Bilbo coughed. Glorfindel might knew better, but it was clear he didn't care. "Then he saw her sword, and I don't think I've seen anyone so _angry_ at something before. He challenged Avatya to single combat and called her a great many names like den-dweller, liar and lurker, and a foe of gods and elves."

He was aware that his voice was raising, and Bilbo took another long draught from his pipe, releasing his white-knuckled grip on the poor wood.

Gandalf looked puzzled, as if he was trying to remember something. "And then?"

"Avatya refused and so Glorfindel drew his sword. That's when you came."

The wizard closed his eyes and muttered a long string of something incomprehensible to Bilbo. "I will speak to Lord Elrond of the misconduct of one of his house."

"What has Avatya done to Glorfindel?" Bilbo asked. "Why was he so angry at the sword?"

"The first is a story you are best asking Avatya herself, but I can tell you about the second. The sword, Anguirel, used to belong to Maeglin, one of the lords of Gondolin ere it fell, and Maeglin was the one who betrayed the location of the city to the forces of the Dark Lord. You must understand, Bilbo, that Gondolin had stood concealed for five centuries despite the best efforts of the Enemy, and it was among the most magnificent of Elven cities till even now."

Bilbo nodded slowly. "He remembers a traitor when he sees the sword."

He tried to imagine Gondolin, something white and grander than Rivendell, framed by snow-capped mountains, and… can't. His imagination falls short.

Gandalf gave him a small, sad, smile. "If you pass by the Hall of Fire in the night, I expect you will hear the songs of the First Age sung by the few left who experienced it."

Bilbo made a note to find out where this hall was and to visit it later.

Presently, the noon bell rang. Bilbo got to his feet, extinguishing what was left of his pipe-weed.

"Are you coming for lunch?" He asked Gandalf.

The wizard hesitated, switching his staff to his other hand. "I think I will."

They did not see Avatya was at lunch. The dwarves seemed not to notice, trooping into the room with their hair still stringy and damp as if they'd just had a bath.

Thorin—and Bilbo was never going to forget the sight of the him dancing, _actually dancing_ , at dinner on their first day—strode in behind the others and even now it still seemed as if he filled the room with his presence. Despite himself, Bilbo found his eyes drawn to Dwarf-lord as something fluttered in his chest.

It was a ridiculous sensation.

The meal that followed was loud and cheerful, a fact Bilbo found himself quickly getting rather used to. The elven musicians were absent, and he rather doubted he would see them performing for dwarves again. There were still grumbling concerning the absence of meat, but Bilbo had heard the dwarves cooking their own sausages on the balcony last night—on a fire _kindled with furniture_ —and had no sympathy for them.

He shot a glance at the empty seat beside him.

"Where did she go, laddie?" Balin murmured.

"I don't know," Bilbo said. "We had a bit of a run-in with Glorfindel."

"That blond elf?"

"Yeah, him. He was… unkind."

"I thought the elves would be better to one of their own," Balin said. "Not that our host has been ungenerous with us, but…"

The dwarf trailed off with a shrug, and they returned to their meal in silence.

* * *

That night, Bilbo made his way down to the Hall of Fire, following the instructions of one of the sons of Elrond, who he encountered on his lost wandering. Elladan seemed like a nice enough chap, more than willing to show him the right way down one of the many corridors. He had seemed a little distracted, though, and Bilbo hadn't wanted to trouble him more. In hindsight, he perhaps should have.

With a smidgen of exasperation, Bilbo looked at the pavilion two courtyards away from the bridge he was standing on. At this angle, he could just see an Elf mostly hidden behind a pillar and the ends of a lyre protruding from either end. The singing had already started, and Bilbo could tell it was a ballad.

The song was in the fair Elven-tongue, which Bilbo knew very little about, yet the words blending with the melody seemed to shape itself in his mind and take him into the song itself. He could almost see the emerald green of forest leaves through which a light was slanting down, falling onto an Elf-maiden running lightly through the glade.

Abruptly, the Elf stopped singing, and Bilbo opened his eyes regretfully, unaware when he had closed them in the first place.

A moment passed, and the Elf began again, this time of a different tune.

Bilbo beheld a white city surrounded by a field of green and encircled by white mountains. It was perhaps, night, and all the lamps were lit, painting its white walls different hues. He was standing on mosaic floor, a fountain before him, and his King was emerging from the tower overhead. He was anticipating something, and there was joy in his heart when the edge of the sky turned pink. There was cheering, some sections of the city already beginning to raise their voice in song and celebration when—

The earth shook and the sky turned red. There was a crash as the city wall fell, and foul things of shadow and flames crept into the city. All around was the bellow of dragons. Terror seized his heart. A battle-cry tore from his lips as he drew his sword, hacking away at the orcs who'd dared entered his home. There was another rumble, greater than the last, and his heart sank as he turned to behold the great dragon that had crawled onto the city square. Its eyes gleamed blue but its hide was blood-red, and there was a shadow upon its back, riding the beast into the city. He sprang forward and—an elf pushed him away, shielding him from its flames. Bilbo's eyes watered and he watched the silver-haired elf bearing his house colours burn under the dragon's maw.

The shadow turned to him, and he glimpsed a pair of eyes shining like flames, before the dragon turned away to scale the king's tower. There was a whirl of activity, facing destruction at every turn and a mounting desperation inside him that he could not give in to.

He was running through an alley, everyone else before him and the escape route within sight, when a flaming whip cracked into the building beside him. Bilbo turned to face the creature, his sword gleaming with the blood of orcs.

The creature advanced—

The Elf stopped once more.

Bilbo jerked back into himself, an unmeasurable sorrow in his heart. As if from a great distance, he realised that his face was wet. Slowly, he turned away, dragging a sleeve across his face. Another Elf, a woman, began to strum the gentle tunes of another song, but Bilbo forced his feet to move. One tragedy was enough for him tonight.

When he looked back down at the pavilion from the corridor of his room, he saw the Elf with the lyre still leaning against the same pillar. Under the firelight, his hair seemed more red than gold.

* * *

 **I wanted to do a indulgent external-POV thing, so there it is.**

 **guys please wish me a lot of good luck thank you very much. I promise the luck won't be wasted or squandered on useless things.**

 **Lingo things:**

 **Achadelos: S. _achas_ and _delos_. Gandalf isn't wrong when he said it means a dreadful thing, because _delos_ is dread. **

**On "Come forth, thou coward..." Bilbo is also not wrong when he assumed Glorfindel was reciting something, because he was. It's the speech Fingolfin (a truly badass High King of the First Age) used to draw out Morgoth in front of Angband. I don't know if I should even explain this here because it'll probably be explained later but oh well.**

 **I absolutely cannot name chapters, but I really don't want it to be nameless because it makes nameless chapters in other fics makes it hard for me to remember what happened where and where I stopped. Gah. Oh well, anyway, bad, not-entirely-accurate chapter names ahoy.**


	7. Chapter 3 II–Farewell to Rivendell

Avatya stared down at the darkened valley in the distance. Imladris never slept, and the soft glow of the city was caught in the river as it flowed south.

A body dropped lightly beside her, bare feet resting on the red-tiled roof.

"You know just where to find the good view," Elrohir said.

Avatya glanced at him. His face was turned to the clouds, baring his pale neck.

"It helps to know the city layout," she said airily, resting her chin on her knee.

Elrohir hummed.

They sat in silence, the Elf seemingly content to watch the shifting clouds unfurl across across the sky, herded by winds that did not reach the ground.

"I am sorry for the tensions I drive within your house each time I come." Avatya kept her gaze low as she spoke, not quite willing to bear the recrimination within the eyes of one of the few who knew who she had been and still accepted her entirely. "It cannot be easy for you nor your brother and father to constantly defend my presence against those who have every right to wish me gone."

"Neither can it be easy for you to bear all the faults of the world," Elrohir said softly, "but we do what others term ill-advised all the same."

She laughed. It was a bitter, wretched laugh, and she felt Anguirel tap against the floor with the movement. "I do not bear all the faults of the world. I bear only that which I caused."

A hand came under her chin, and Avatya turned her head with the motion. Elrohir looked at her. Grey were his eyes, shining with the light of the stars.

"You carry the blame for acts outside your control because you have grown used to it." Elrohir lowered his hand. "It need not be so much longer; an end is approaching, though not yet within sight."

Avatya felt a whisper of wind tug at her hair as she stared hard at Elrohir. Traces of a Power of the world flowed within his veins, and his last words rang with seeming doom.

He smiled. "Will you come down? Or is the sight of another dawn too alluring and you wish to stay yet longer?"

She looked at him for a longer more, searching his face. At last, Avatya found her voice.

"I have already witnessed one dawn this week; another is wholly unnecessary."

Elrohir grinned, getting to his feet and offered a hand to her. Avatya took it and pulled herself up, a little stiffness in her knee after spending an entire day on the roof. They walked up the dome-shaped roof and came to the observatory. With a mock bow, Elrohir stopped.

"The lady first," he said, pressing his lips lightly against her hand.

Avatya felt the corners of her lips turn, and she flipped over the railing with ease. "Ever the gentleman," she said over her shoulder.

"One must, of course, set an example for our Dwarf guests," Elrohir said, landing softly on the floor inside the building.

At the bottom of the spiral staircase, a head peered up at them.

"Avatya and brother dearest, I bring with me some bread and a little of the miruvor that father had stored on Arwen's begetting. You may come down and enjoy them if you are done with your tryst."

Elrohir laughed, descending the steps. "Does father know you took it?" Elrohir called down incredulously, descending the stairs.

Avatya let him lead her down, and both reached the last step as Elladan said, "What father knows is completely beyond me. I only saw the bottle laid out on his desk as I passed and took my chance."

"I did not hear that," Elrohir told him. "I do not know where you could have possibly come across such fine miruvor, but I am very glad that you have decided to share it."

Elladan smirked. There was a tray set on the floor, with three bowls of soup and bread rolls beside them, and several tall, very generously filled, glasses laid on the floor. Elrohir crossed his legs as he sat down, and sniffed the miruvor appreciatively.

"Very good, brother," he said, and raised his glass at his twin before taking a small sip.

Avatya and Elladan followed him to the floor, forming a loose triangle. Her hand went automatically for the glass, but Avatya forced herself to pick up the bread instead. It would not do to drink something so potent on an empty stomach.

The bread roll was cold, but the soup was yet warm. It wasn't a feast by any account, but Avatya would have traded all the most luxurious feasts in Númenor for this one meal.

"Your hobbit is getting concerned," Elladan remarked after a while, when most of the soup was gone. "He asked me for instructions to the Hall of Fire two days ago and came by yesterday to see if I knew where you were."

Avatya bowed her head. Bilbo must have heard the songs about Gondolin by now, and he still wanted to find her?

"He has perhaps an inkling at most," Elladan continued. "And I think he is unbothered by it. The happenings of the First Ages are even further from him than from us. Mortal memories are short, and the Shirefolks' are shorter than most."

Avatya took a sip from her glass, closing her eyes as the sweet, sweet mead slid down her throat. It settled warm in her stomach, chasing away the chill that had settled upon her skin from the cool night and the cold marble. "There are some things I miss from the West, miruvórë not least."

The sons of Elrond looked at her as she opened her eyes again, and she sighed. "I will answer any of Bilbo's questions if he comes to me with them. You know I have never actively sought to hide my deeds."

"We do," Elrohir said, grasping her hand. "And we respect your courage. I believe Elladan was going to, in his long twisting verbose speech, suggest that while your hobbit may not care for such history, the dwarves you travel with may take more offence."

Avatya grimaced. "I do believe there are two dwarves who already take offence at my presence."

The twins glanced at each other.

Avatya raised her glass and cut them off. "Shall we talk of the pleasant things in life? It is a dishonour to the brewer to drink miruvor as common beer."

"Very well," Elladan said, and paused, wineglass midway to his lips. "Have you been introduced to Estel?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Who is he?"

"He is," Elrohir paused, looking incredibly proud, "the best little escapist I have ever known."

"Better than Arathorn," Elladan said admiringly. "I cannot see how either of them are related to Arador at all."

"You speak of the latest heir of Númenor?" Avatya asked dryly, taking another small sip.

"Indeed. Estel is Aragorn son of Arathorn." Elrohir's eyes grew sharp. "Hope of the Dúnadain and possibly even King of Gondor."

"We have been keeping an eye on him," Elladan said easily. "Only ten years old and he has already proposed once to Arwen."

Avatya stared.

Elrohir coughed on his drink. "Oh brother, you exaggerate. He has only told Arwen that she is pretty eight times or so."

Avatya laughed, entirely too gleeful to hear about Arwen's suitors. "Do tell how that went."

* * *

As they spoke, a pleasant haze grew thicker around them, steady as the gradual brightening of the sky. When all three glasses was emptied, dawn had broken, and the three of them split up to retreat to their rooms.

Avatya was unable to stop her good cheer from showing. Despite getting no sleep for the past two days, she was comfortably alert and refreshed, a lightness to her limbs that can be attributed to having a large quantity of potent miruvor. The halls she chose were those that tended to be sparsely populated until later afternoon, and by some stroke of luck all was empty when she passed.

Thus it was entirely a surprise when she encountered none less than Thorin Oakenshield as she turned the corner.

The dwarf had been gazing into the distance, unmoving, and he jerked around when he heard her pass. Avatya's smile slipped, and she kept her expression neutral when his brows furrowed.

"Where have you been?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"Enjoying the city sights," Avatya said blandly, leaning back. "Why?"

"You did not tell anyone of our purpose?"

She gestured at the empty corridor. "I have not spoken a word regarding the quest to anyone since I was told."

Thorin stared at her for a moment longer. "Very well. Can you read moon runes?"

Moon runes? Elves have seldom use for such mithril letters, but it was a common form of secret writing for Dwarves of the Second Age such that they had inscribed it upon the doors of all their great cities, Moria among them. Avatya leaned back and raised an eyebrow. "Knowing when to read the runes is not a hard skill to learn, but I was not taught Khuzdul, which your map is written in. I only know what I have learnt in passing. It may be enough to read your map, or it may not."

His frown deepened. "Then there is no choice."

"Elrond is a master of lore and languages," Avatya said, a trifle offended. "You can distrust all Elves, but you should not doubt his skill."

"I am aware," Thorin snapped, turning away. "I had only hoped for a shorter delay on our journey."

Avatya eyed the dwarf as he trooped back to his room, already clothed in his fur coat, before shaking her head and continuing down her path. As she rounded the next corner, she glimpsed an elf with hair of gold and clad in battle-wear of Silvan fashion walking across the joining corridor.

Avatya took a quick step back around the corner and paused on the other side of the wall. Haldir was among Galadriel's personal guards and he goes where the Lady goes.

Why on earth would Galadriel be in Imladris? If this was on White Council business then such a gathering had come at a terrible time.

Saruman was probably here too. Avatya curled her lips in distaste. She was abstractly fond of Radagast, briefly acquainted with Alatar and Pallando, and endured Gandalf, but there had never been any bridges between her and Saruman.

She always had a feeling that it was because of Sauron's fall from grace, but there was no point in talking about such anymore. As it was, the less she saw the White Wizard, the better.

The same rule was true with the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Celeborn was Sinda, and rightly held a great many grudges from the older days. Avatya could barely remember the last time she saw him—no doubt there was few words involved and a lot of dodging. Galadriel was a different matter; the doom of her kin was entirely the fault of the Noldor rather than any evil on Avatya's part, so while they had no quarrels, every interaction Avatya had with her from the Second Age had been hugely perturbing.

No one was quite as unsettling as Galadriel if she put her mind to it.

Avatya peered around the corner and saw Haldir pass the other way. She briefly considered her choices, and went to the side of the corridor, leaning over the side to check the floor beneath.

A lone Imladris Elf walked past, humming a song. She waited a moment, but the corridor remained empty. Avatya swung herself over the railing and dropped. The wind whipped her hair into her face, obscuring her vision, but Avatya reached out and felt the smooth pillar of the building and held on. Her shoulders tensed, briefly, before she lifted herself up and over the sides and onto the floor.

This was not most direct path to her room, but it was better than running into Galadriel.

Almost as if on cue, she heard the Lady's voice above her, light and lilting. Avatya hastened her steps before Galadriel could perceive her, never slowing until she had slipped under the tapestry that hid the steps to her corridor from view.

* * *

It was a few days afterwards when she came across Bilbo, once again in a garden. He was crowned in smoke and jumped when she called to him from a bridge over his head.

"Good morning Avatya!" He returned, craning his neck to look up. "How are you?"

"I am fine," she called down, and eyed the distance to ground.

"What are you–no no don't–!"

Avatya straightened her knees and smiled serenely at Bilbo, now on the same floor. "How have you been doing?"

The hobbit gaped at her, gesturing at the bridge and the bench and the air between both, before clearing his throat. "I, I am doing very well, thank you."

"That is good. Elrond would be most disappointed if his guests are not given the hospitality they are due."

"I suppose that's why the dwarves have never seen so much as a slice of meat in their food?" Bilbo said wryly, grinning.

Avatya sniffed in affected disgust. "Did you not hear? Elves are tree-huggers and leaf-eaters. It would be most inhospitable to shock the dwarves by putting meat on the table."

The hobbit laughed and she smiled with him.

"You seem very familiar with Elrond," Bilbo observed, "and with the city itself."

"I am continually honoured by the friendship of Elrond and his family," Avatya said, bowing her head. "They are without doubt the kindest beings I know."

She was using the term _being_ very loosely, but Bilbo hardly needed to know that.

The hobbit nodded. "Oh yes, I feel that too. How did you two meet, if I may ask?"

Avatya frowned lightly. "It was a long time ago. I arrived in Lindon, the realm of Gil-galad. Elrond was already a healer and a lore-master then, and I asked to be taught the art of healing."

Lost, disoriented still from the long judgement of the Valar and with nothing to guide her save her Oath, she had wandered the coast for days. Ulmo had taken back the ship he raised from the sea's depth, with only a point towards Lindon before vanishing into his depths. Lindon's architecture had very much resembled Beleriand's, and that was how she'd known that no more than a century had passed.

Gil-galad gave her reluctant passage to his kingdom, watching her every movement. For the first few weeks she had helped where she could and was allowed; building city walls, tending crops, cutting planks, while the elves around her shied away from the vestiges of power that seeped from her soul. The High King of the Noldor had once remarked, in a way that was undoubtedly meant to cut, that looking at her was like looking at an eclipse. Something shadowed her fëa, and what little unobscured felt like burning flames, dark with malice.

It had not hurt then, but now, far later, she began to feel its sting.

Two Ages of the world and still she was tainted, working for what seemed less like redemption and more like an end that was never in sight. In another Age the Elves would but all be gone, sailed to Aman or faded to small isolated communities mere whispers of their former glory. Where would she be then, alone in mortal lands?

Avatya turned her thoughts away, and saw Bilbo watching her thoughtfully.

"What was Gondolin like?"

"Magnificent," she said immediately, and paused to wet her lips. "It has been called the fairest city wrought by Elven hands in Middle-earth. Have you heard of Minas Tirith of Gondor, Bilbo? It bears a faint likeness to the city of Gondolin with its white stone and seven gates; but Gondolin is encircled entirely by mountains, which keeps away storms and provides the clear water that feeds the city and the plains around."

"It sounds like a remarkable place," Bilbo said.

"It was."

"Were you there when it, ah, fell?"

Avatya looked at Bilbo and smiled. The hobbit's expression turned a little uncertain.

"I have been to Gondolin only the once. When I left, it was no longer a city."

* * *

Bilbo stared at Avatya, fighting the way his instincts screamed at him to run away and make himself small before he attracted the attention of a much larger predator on the premise. He must have misunderstood something.

"You helped to destroy the city?"

Her eyes lost its manic red glint and Avatya sighed, the dark, oppressive air gone in a gust of wind.

"I did not _help,_ I commanded its destruction."

Bilbo crossed his arms. "So to be clear," he said, clearing his throat, "you worked for the dark forces that destroyed Gondolin."

She nodded once, her expression perfectly blank.

Bilbo rocked back on his heels. That would certainly explain why Glorfindel would pull a sword on Avatya. Bilbo didn't think he could forgive anyone who destroyed Bag-End either. (He could hardly find it in himself to forgive Lobelia for all the spoons and silverware she had steadily taken over the years.) Still…

"Have you destroyed any city since?"

Avatya blinked at him. "No."

"That's good," Bilbo said, meaning it. He's fairly sure he knew what was going on now. "Are you working for any orcs and dark lords now?"

The elf stared at him. "No."

"No one is forcing you to tell me this, right?"

"No."

Bilbo nodded in satisfaction. "Then I congratulate you on coming to your senses."

He didn't doubt Avatya. Somehow he didn't think Gandalf or Elrond would willingly welcome or keep friendship with dark creatures and fell beings, nor that anyone evil would have saved him or grieved over the deaths of others, trolls they may be. Besides, he was hardly in a position to judge Avatya for her past actions when he had never experienced any effect from it. Let the bygones be bygones; there was enough to worry about in the future (such as _dragons_ ) without worrying about the past too.

Avatya was still again. A little concerned, Bilbo looked around before meeting her distant gaze and jumped when she spoke suddenly.

"He did say mortal memory was short," Avatya said wonderingly, tilting her head at him. "Would that all races share your kindness and simplicity, Bilbo. The world would be a better place."

Bilbo's cheek grew faintly warm, and he found himself a little lost for words at this unexpected compliment.

"Have you been to the library yet?" The elf asked abruptly.

He shook his head and found his voice. "I've been intending to take a look, but I haven't quite gotten around to finding it."

"Do you want to go now?" Avatya asked. "Though most of the texts are written in Sindarin, there are many written in Common. You seem scholar enough that at least some will be of interest to you."

Bilbo beamed. "I shan't mind a tour of the library."

* * *

The library was large and circular. Spiral stairs at the centre led up to the second floor, which held even more shelves than the first. Sunlight slanted down the skylights in the dome above their heads, turning soft and gentle despite the early afternoon sun.

Bilbo looked around in wonder, running his fingers lightly over a row of spines. He had never seen this many texts in one location—the bookshelf in his study paled in comparison to _these_. Every shelf was made of intricately carved wood, their sides displaying scenes of what Bilbo guessed to be moments and places in history. As he gazed at them, he realised that not one depicted a battle. There was one of three jewels between two trees, one showing a tower on a hill overlooking the sea, and one of a swan perched upon the bow of a ship.

"It's a pity we don't have enough time to enjoy the library fully," he said regretfully, removing a book that was titled _Westron Translation of the Songs by Daeron of Doriath_ from a shelf. The writer, Pethion, had perhaps done a good job in in keeping the full meaning of the songs, but Bilbo rather felt that without rhyme or rhythm they could hardly be called _songs_. He would very much rather a translation that could be put to music.

Bilbo stared wistfully at the long, elegant script. He would also very much like to learn Sindarin and read the poems in their original form.

"You are perfectly welcome to stay when you pass by again," Avatya said behind him, the shadow of her head falling onto the pages as she read it over his shoulder.

"Really? I would never want to intrude." Bilbo glanced up, hopeful.

"Yes. Elrond is rather fond of you; it would not be an intrusion."

He bowed his head awkwardly, unable to hide a smile. "I suppose I will be passing by here when I come back from Erebor…"

Perhaps he could ask to stay for a little while and try to translate the book properly without this transliterated arhythmic nonsense.

He didn't expect the sudden look Avatya gave him at his words, or the determined glint in her eye when she looked away again, but it happened so quickly that he almost doubted it occured at all.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the library. In the evening, Avatya accompanied him to dinner with the dwarves for the first time since the second day of their arrival.

All in all, it had been a good day.

* * *

Avatya turned her head at the sound of dwarves shouting. There was a sharp crash of steel, and then Dwalin was saying, "Again! Faster!"

The sound repeated several more times.

Elladan peered over his windowsill.

"The heirs are doing drills," he commented. "The dark-haired one seems very angry."

"Does he?" Elrohir asked lazily.

"He bears a great hatred against the training swords, that is certain," Elladan said with a wince. "I fear they will need to be delivered to the forge afterwards."

Curious, Avatya stretched as she stood up and came to the window. In the training ground a little aways from Elladan's room, Kíli was practicing with the unsharpened training sword. His brows were deeply furrowed. There was some legwork involved, and then he was swinging the sword with all his might at Dwalin. With a grunt, Dwalin blocked it with his own training sword before it came close to his head.

It did seem somewhat damaging for the admittedly blunt blade.

Fíli was seated on the steps, twirling a dagger in his hand as he watched his brother repeatedly smash his sword into Dwalin's. There was a bow and quiver beside him, and Avatya was reminded of the speed of Kíli's draw during the warg chase. An improvement in his archery skills would certainly benefit the dwarf, upon or beyond this quest.

After a few more drills, Dwalin called a halt and beckoned to Fíli. Visibly panting, Kíli sat down heavily on the step his brother just vacated and dropped the sword to the ground.

Now it was Fíli's turn to go through the drills.

"His swing needs more work," Elrohir observed. "It would serve him well against foes his own size, but orcs rarely come so small."

Dwalin seemed to agree with this assessment. He adjusted Fíli's arm, shoulders, and hip, and called for him to continue. This time Fíli struck the air higher, and his follow-through led to a low stroke that could be crippling to an orc.

"Better," Elrohir said, and turned to Avatya. "Which of them uses the bow?"

"Kíli. The dark-haired one." She paused and added, "The blond is Fíli, and that is Dwalin."

Elrohir nodded in acknowledgement. "How is he with the bow?"

"He has some skill with it," Avatya said politely.

It was not that Kíli was _bad_ , but rather that she had experienced the best in action and all others fell short. An Elven archer of the First Age could easily have felled the orc and warg without a sound; it was a skill she had found both irksome and admirable. In later years she witnessed the finest Greenwood archers in battle, and there were few who could compare to the speed at which they rained arrows upon their foes.

Avatya pursed her lips together. Bilbo was not with them. He could be learning sword-fighting elsewhere, of course, but she would like to be sure.

"Are either of you able to teach the basics of a sword to a novice?"

The twins looked at her. Elrohir raised an eyebrow. "We have the time. Who is the student?"

* * *

"So you mean—like this?" Bilbo set his foot before him and lunged, his arm raised.

Elladan nodded. "Yes. Very good, Bilbo."

He nodded and stepped back, listening as Elladan directed him through the next step of the movement.

Bilbo seemed to be taking the lesson very well, for someone who came from a non-violent, adventure-detesting culture. He had been a little hesitant at first when they first approached him, but he had listened carefully to Elladan on the holding and maintaining of his sword, and went through each new pose with a determined air about him.

A lesson or two would hardly be enough to turn him into a competent defender, and Avatya hoped fervently that he would never be caught in a battle.

Elrohir shifted, and she turned her attention to him.

"I do not feel like this is a fair fight if I am armed with a sword and you are not," he said, frowning lightly. "Will you not at least use a quarterstaff?"

Avatya shook her head, smiling wryly. "Orcs are less concerned about fairness, and I do not intend to carry a staff with me when we leave."

Elrohir pulled a face. "Arwen would accuse me of being unchivalrous if she was here."

"And she would inform _naneth_ ," Elladan called to them in Common. "Shame on you brother for attacking an unarmed maiden."

He was grinning as he said it, and Avatya shot him an unimpressed stare. It had been hard enough trying to convince Elrohir to pick up a sword, and she would sweep Elladan onto his back right there if he managed to discourage his twin from fighting entirely.

"What Celebrían and Arwen do not know cannot be used against you," she said, and raised her voice. "Is that right?"

Elladan threw his hands up with a smirk, turning his back to them as he returned to instructing a bemused Bilbo.

Elrohir looked at her as he raised the practice sword, his features easing into a warrior's calm that left his face unreadable. "Very well."

The slash as he leapt forward was neither restrained nor slowed. Avatya crossed her forearms and caught the downward swing of his sword with her shackles. The sound rang clearly through the grounds. She held it for a moment longer when Elrohir pushed down before leaping aside.

Pivoting, she deflected the sword away and kicked out. He bent back, catching her foot before she could retract. Avatya made a displeased sound at the back of her throat and spun back, forcing him to release his hold to block her incoming arm. She took the moment to spring back, putting enough space between them that his sword could not reach her.

Anguirel's weight on her hip was a constant call for her to use it. She crushed the feeling and swept it away. No sword was better than a foul one.

She glanced to her right. Bilbo was holding his knife, swinging it gingerly through the air under Elladan's careful supervision.

Avatya shook her head and met Elrohir's grey eyes. He was smiling, dark hair swirling around him from the movement of his body.

There was a second's stillness. Then he leapt forward once more.

Avatya twisted under his outstretched arm. Her hair stirred as the sword passed over her head, and she thrust her elbow into Elrohir's torso, gentling her blow at the last moment. He stepped back with a huff, sword slashing downwards. She threw out her arm to block it and hooked her foot around his knee. The sword tapped against her wrist as she pulled. Avatya grimaced. That would be equivalent to losing her hand were it a real fight.

As Elrohir lurched, she spun behind him, snaking her arms around his neck and pushing him down.

They stopped. There was cold metal resting on her shoulder, and Elrohir stuck his tongue at her as he looked up, his right arm foiling her chokehold. Avatya wrinkled her nose.

"Arwen will have my hide," he groaned abruptly, sagging in her hold. She laughed in his ear, unwrapping her arms around him and stepping away.

"It is for a good cause," Avatya said. "I needed to see how I fared against someone skilled."

She laid her hand on his shoulder as she passed. "Thank you."

Elladan was very pointedly not saying a word as Avatya moved behind him, and if he was wise he would stay that way. Losing was not unexpected, but it was a little bit disappointing.

"Mister Baggins!"

They all turned to see the caller. It was Kíli. He was followed by Fíli and Dwalin, and all three of them bore the marks of a long exertion.

"Kíli, Fíli, Dwalin?" Bilbo said in confusion. "Hello."

Kíli stopped before him and glared at Elladan. "What are you doing with our Burglar?"

"Burglar?" Elrohir murmured, his eyes flicking to Avatya.

She shrugged at him as Elladan said, "Teaching him a little defence."

"You are unqualified to teach our Burglar sword-fighting," Kíli said with a firm nod. "He should learn it from someone closer to his size."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows at his words. Elladan smirked, crossing his arms as he oozed arrogance from every pore. "And I suppose you think you have the skills to teach someone else?"

Kíli twitched.

Ignoring Fíli's warning tap, he stared up defiantly at Elladan. "I can prove it. Fight me."

Elladan's smirk took a sly edge. "What is the reward for winning?"

"The honour of teaching Mister Baggins the use of his sword."

"Very well. I accept your challenge."

Kíli turned to his brother, who was staring at him with the sort of resigned look of someone very used to this. There was a furious flurry of hand signs and then Kíli passed his coat to Fíli before turning to face them.

Elrohir flipped his practice sword to offer it to the dwarf hilt-first. Kíli squinted at it for a moment, but took it with a wordless nod. Avatya pulled Bilbo with her as they retreated to the side of the training field.

"This is a little ridiculous," Bilbo said, shaking his head. "I'm perfectly fine with learning from two teachers."

"This is not only about teaching rights," Avatya said sagely as she sat down on the steps. "It is about establishing superiority."

Fíli came to Bilbo's other side, his eyes trained on the two combatants who were laying out the boundaries of their fight in the centre of the field. Dwalin was watching the entire proceedings with a displeased air about him, arms crossed.

Elladan turned to them. "Bilbo, could you call the start?"

Kíli nodded. Both their swords were raised.

"How do I–" the hobbit broke off. "Start?"

Kíli lunged forward. Elladan took a swift step back, prepared to strike when Kíli suddenly pulled back. The dwarf twirled his sword, both of them circling each other, visibly sizing the other up. Avatya snorted. Then Elladan moved forward, graceful as a lynx, wielding the sword with his left hand as he slashed down in quick succession. Kíli ducked aside his first blow and threw himself forward, sliding on his knees. Elladan leapt away to avoid his sweeping blade, his head cocked as the dwarf stood and turned in one fluid motion.

Kíli was clearly well-taught in the use of a sword. He did not have the brutish stiffness to his motions that Avatya observed in beginners, but she knew too little of the skill to judge his actual level. Elladan, though, she recognised was not fighting as he could. There was little pauses in his strokes, and she had seen enough times of his quick, linking, attacks to know that he was restraining himself.

Elrohir made a soft _hm_. She felt him glance at the dwarves beside Bilbo and nod at whatever he saw on their faces.

"He turned it _educational_ ," he muttered in explanation, low enough that Bilbo couldn't hear him. "And the—Dwalin—knows it."

Avatya glanced sideways. Dwalin was murmuring to Fíli, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the two fighters.

"I expect this to last for some time," Elrohir said. "And your hobbit shall be very exasperated by the time all of you leave this valley."

He was right. The fight took its own time before coming to an end, and the outcome was a draw when both Kíli and Elladan were disarmed in the same bout. Bilbo was perhaps the only one who was satisfied with that result, because Fíli promptly challenged Elladan to a knife-throwing contest. Elladan demurred and volunteered Elrohir, who caved under the pressure to uphold the reputation of Elves.

Thus began a rivalry that spanned over a long series of contests. Bilbo had the dubious honour of being chosen to oversee them much of the time, with the reason being that he was 'an impartial judge', being neither a Dwarf nor an Elf. Somehow there was never a decisive win, even for something that was as trivial as hair-braiding, because both sides could always present a highly compelling argument as to why the other did not, in fact, win the contest.

Avatya didn't think she had ever seen anyone so deeply exasperated as Bilbo, nor anyone so relieved when at last they were told to pack their bags.

* * *

"We're leaving in the middle of the night?" Bilbo hissed when Nori came to his room again, carrying his own overstuffed bag.

"Yea. Thorin's orders," Nori said with a shrug. "C'mon now, we need to start moving. D'you know where's Avatya's room?"

Bilbo shook his head. "She went to pack, and I think she's coming back here later. Why are we leaving like thieves?"

Elrond had been perfectly kind and hospitable to them and now they were repaying his kindness by leaving in the dead of night without even a word of gratitude? After he read Thorin's map for him, too! Bilbo was not pleased with this.

Nori looked at him with great amusement as if he had said something funny, and Bilbo shook his head, reaching for his pipe else he snap at the dwarf. Or Thorin, when he saw him later. He was nearing the end of his patience, and while Bilbo didn't count himself as a particularly patient individual, he _was_ someone who could put up with the many Took and Brandybuck fauntlings he had as nieces and nephews without so much as a word of complaint.

Being forced to preside over _every single_ competition between the dwarvish princes and the elven twins had been more than a little exhausting, particularly since Kíli and Fíli got it into their minds that they shouldn't ever leave him alone lest the Elves kidnapped him away for some nefarious training purposes. He didn't really mind the company, but Bilbo would very much like some _quiet_ and _peaceful_ time alone, thank you very much.

And the library! Between one thing and another he hadn't had a lot of chances to sit down and properly peruse those ancient tomes and give them their due attention. He could hardly carry around an elvish book when the pair of brothers were around him either; Thorin thought low enough of him that Bilbo would really rather not turn it into the negative range by 'associating with elves' or some such.

Avatya appeared at his doorway, her haversack slung over both shoulders.

Nori glanced at her and nodded. "That's everyone. Let's go."

With guilt gnawing in his stomach, Bilbo followed him. The corridors were sparsely lit with lamps, barely just enough to see by. The valley outside was dark and quiet. If Bilbo strained his ears, he could just hear music carried on the wind, a little indistinct but seemingly familiar.

Nori was confident in his directions, bringing them on a lengthy, rounding journey through the corridors that ensured they encountered no inhabitant of the city. As they passed through the higher levels, Avatya paused, peering down at the city with narrowed eyes. Curious, Bilbo looked over the railing. There was a pavilion far below them, between two waterfalls on the cliff-edge. There were people in them, though he couldn't see their faces or features very well through the patterned dome. Two of them was wearing white, and their raiments shone softly under the moon that was the only light in their gathering.

Bilbo felt a prickle on the back of his neck, and Avatya hissed. Nori tapped his foot on the ground.

"Are you quite done? The others are waiting."

"They know we are leaving," Avatya said. "But they will take no action until dawn."

Nori raised an eyebrow. "Is it now?"

Avatya pressed her lips together, and Nori shrugged. "We shall hurry."

Bilbo suppressed his feeling of unease as they turned away from that corridor, and dismissed it entirely when he saw the other dwarves in the distance. Nothing bad could come into Rivendell.

"Is everyone all here?" Thorin asked, blue eyes bright from the single lamp of the corridor Bilbo, Avatya, and Nori came from. They landed on Bilbo for a long moment, and he felt a flicker of disappointment when Thorin turned to Nori. "Excellent. We can leave now. Nori, lead the way."

Nori gave a little bow before moving to the front of the company, bumping shoulders with his brothers before he began calling for everyone to move.

And with a renewed sense of guilt, Bilbo followed the dwarves out of Rivendell and back into the Wild.

* * *

 **yay for exams being over and the Real Grind™ beginning! I love me standardised exams : ).**

 **I tried not to make this chapter filler-y, and anyway I wanted to wrap up the Rivendell setting by this chapter so yeah yay multiple scenes, time-skips, and POV shifts.**

 **Also characterisation is hard and I _tried_ , really, but if anyone's OOC or remarkably silent even though they shouldn't be—sorry. I'd rather underrepresent than butcher a character at this point and I'm still learning this writing thing so please forgive. **

**Some really minor lingo bits and Legendarium background:**

 **Pethion – _S._ He of words. Sue me I am uncreative with names, but if you can have Galadriel being called Man-maiden because she's tall, you can have a writer called Words. **

**Daeron: the dude who basically invented Cirth alphabets and wrote a whole bunch of music and poetry to woo his love Lúthien, who sadly loved someone else instead.**

 **naneth – _S._ mother. **

**In case y'all didn't notice, I'm putting Celebrían as alive here. We don't see her (or Arwen) in Rivendell because they're supposed to be in Lothlórien at this point visiting her parents (or grandparents, for Arwen), but since Galadriel came for the White Council I suppose they're just visiting Celeborn and Lothlórien friends now.**

 **Also yes that pavilion was the White Council. (I love the cinematography involved in that scene; it's amazing and pretty, albeit probably fake, but STILL. Pink sunrise skies are my Thin** **g™. As is Galadriel. And Galadriel-Gandalf relationships.)**


	8. Chapter 4 I–The Wild and The Treacherous

Avatya cocked her head. The wind carried with it the howling of hunting wargs, currently too far away but but steadily gaining. She took the warning for what it was and quickened her steps a little to reach Balin, who had steadily drifted to near the back of the group when youth and stamina had overtaken his age.

"Aye lass?" He asked with a faint huff, face red, pausing when she fell into steps beside him.

"The wargs are back on our trail," she said, looking at him. "They will be upon us before we passed the mountains."

"Is that so?" Balin murmured, brows creased. "We will cross that particular bridge when it is within sight, I think."

Avatya shrugged off his mild skepticism. "The decisions of the Company are not mine to make," she said easily. "I am only informing you of what I know."

Warning thus delivered, she slowed her steps even more to fall back to the end. The steep climb was not entirely agreeable with Bilbo, who kept up with the company by going at a steady pace only a little slower than that set by Thorin. The mountain path was full of loose rocks, and Avatya glanced down frequently at his bare feet. Hobbits were, however, tougher than she expected, and nothing came from his occasional slip on the sharp stones.

* * *

The weather looked to be thoroughly uncooperative when they came to the base of the mountains. Swirling dark clouds loomed over the peaks, flashing with lightning. Even from here, they could hear the thunder rolling through the range.

Thorin called for the company to break, eyeing the clouds as if he was offended by their presence.

"Everyone check your bags," he said. "And make sure you have one set of clothes that'll stay dry. It's a wet and cold journey ahead."

"Sounds wonderful," Bilbo muttered, sitting down on a large rock. Avatya lowered her bag beside him, ruffling through its contents. She had just one other set of clothing in there, with the leggings she took from Imladris. Her medical items were kept in leather pouches, and she was unconcerned that they would be wet. All in all, there was little to worry about among her possessions, but Avatya traded her current cloak for the thicker one in her bag.

She had woven this one herself, unlike the other which was given in dunlend name as a parting gift. That meant the cloak was a little more resistant to water and travel than most. It's not comparable to the cloaks of Lothlórien, of course, because those require a far more arduous process with materials not readily available, but it was enough to fool a glance.

At Thorin's command, they set off again.

The rain reached them in a few stray drops that turned into a steady drizzle as they climbed closer.

Her cloak grew steadily heavier throughout the day, and the brief meal she had was cold and damp where the persistent drops had seeped through the cloth of her bag.

When the sun was low and the clouded sky even dimmer, the head of the company found a place to stop. The back half of the company took a while longer to reach, but reach there they did. Avatya was more relieved than weary when the shelter came into sight—a dry, sheltered spot _at last_. The entrance to the cave was marked by a carved triangle, made and used by travellers past to recognise a safe point. It had a low opening, framed by dangling tussock that dripped incessantly.

She stooped low to get in, only to discover that the ceiling, while much higher than the entrance suggested, was barely tall enough for a short Man, much less herself.

"Here," Bofur said, waving at her. "The floor dips a bit here so you mightn't have to bend that much."

"Thank you," Avatya said. Her voice was the only part of her that was dry.

"A bit" was actually quite a fair lot, she discovered when she reached Bofur. There was a trench by the wall, and at its deepest point was well able to accommodate her full height. It led to a shadowed recess in the side of the cave, and she turned to Bofur.

"Where does that lead to?"

"Dunno," he said, with a careless shrug. "There was a cave-in, blocked it off pretty solidly. Nothing's getting through that."

Avatya nodded and spread out her bedroll to dry. Fíli had started a fire in the centre; its warmth was gladly welcomed to chase away the chill of damp clothes.

The rain continued dripping outside, casting a wet gloom inside as well. There was no activity to be had, save that of changing to dry clothes and hanging their day's wear to dry. Quickly after, the company had lain down, light breaths deepening to snores.

Avatya stared at the ceiling and hoped for better travel-weather tomorrow.

* * *

Tomorrow brought with it the same persistent drizzle. By sometime early afternoon, they had made it into the heart of the storm higher in the mountains.

What had been barely dry became wet, and what had been wet became soaked.

Avatya glowered westwards, drawing her cloak tighter about herself. Thunder boomed around them. The rocky path had long since left soil and vegetation behind and was now slippery in the rain. At her foot, a small river ran across the path, turning into a waterfall as it flowed off the cliff.

There was a flash of lightning, so bright she was momentarily blinded. Two paces later in the buffeting winds, she heard the thunder. It was so loud the mountains seem to shake with it, rumbling under her feet. The sound echoed, cracking and booming into the distance.

Except...

An echo would not remain so strong for so long.

"Woah!"

Her hand snapped out, grasping the collar of Bilbo's waistcoat as he slid forward. Dwalin turned at his cry, throwing an arm in front of the hobbit. Together they stopped Bilbo from meeting a grisly end down the mountain.

"Thanks," Bilbo said shakily, pressing his back to the cliff-face.

"Look out!"

From the opposing mountains flew a huge boulder, and it crashed into the peak above them with a ground-shaking crack.

"Back! Get back!" Thorin roared, ducking.

Boulders rained down on them as what seemed like a quarter of the peak shattered.

"It's a thunder battle!" Balin shouted, almost inaudible in the howling wind.

Lightning flashed again, lighting up a behemoth standing on the mountain across them.

Oh. _Oh_.

Avatya reached out with her senses. Now that she knew what to look for, it was hard to miss them. Spirits flitted all around the company, so large and insubstantial that she had took them for the mountains. They took shape where and when they wished, forming misshapen bodies of granite and iron to join in the game, and abandoning them just as easily when the odds turned.

In a game of giants, who noticed the ants?

"Split up! SPLIT UP!" Avatya shouted, pulling back Bilbo and Dwalin.

The spirit in their mountain erupted in corporeal form, pulling away with legs that had been their path. Half the company was on those knees. Avatya looked up,eyes narrowed in the rain. Another stone-giant approached and struck the newly-formed giant in the head. As it fell back, its legs smashed back into the mountain-side.

Avatya stumbled.

"Fíli, Kíli!" Thorin cried, pushing his way to the impact site.

Her hands were empty. She looked around wildly for a head of curls and found none.

"Bilbo?"

"Here!"

A sharp cry came at her feet. Avatya dropped to a knee, reaching down to grasp his forearm. With her other hand, she found a small protrusion on the wall.

"Up," she said in warning, and pulled.

There was a sudden strain as she bore the hobbit's full, unexpectedly heavy, weight, tipping off the cliff until she dug her fingers into the wall and held on. Then suddenly other hands were helping, pulling, lifting. Bilbo emerged, face white, and he was hauled roughly onto the path.

"Are you injured?" Avatya asked, running her hands down his shoulder and arms where he might have pulled something.

Bilbo shook his head.

"Whew," said Bofur with a grin, pulling him to his feet and brushing off some debris stuck to Bilbo's shoulders. "Almost thought we'd lost our burglar."

"He's been lost since he left home. He shouldn't have come," Thorin snapped. "We need shelter, before the rain and giants send anyone else plummeting to their deaths."

Into the silence that followed, Balin said softly, "There ought to be one ahead. We're due a traveller's stop."

"Then let's go."

The rest of the company turned and walked on. Bofur patted Bilbo awkwardly on the shoulder before obeying the command, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder. Bilbo stared at their retreating backs for a moment before walking. He was trembling.

Avatya followed behind, wordless.

True to Balin's words, there was another cave not too far away. The entrance was just wide enough for Bombur to enter, and it was a great respite from the rain. As Dwalin searched the cave, Avatya opted to settle down by the entrance. The thing about many wet, tired, dwarves carrying damp bags was that their smell could probably be detected even miles away upwind. At the entrance, there was fresh, cool breeze, leagues better than the humid stench of the stale cave air.

"We leave at first light," Thorin said, shooting Balin a sharp look when the older dwarf tried to protest.

As the others settled in for the night, she heard Balin murmur to Thorin. "We are to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joins us. That was the plan."

"Plans change," Thorin said brusquely, lying down in clear dismissal.

Gandalf would be too preoccupied with his White Council matters to care about this side quest he started. Typical wizard. She sneered silently, but was unable to hide the shudder that shot down her spine. Galadriel had seen her, that moment on the bridge. Avatya didn't know what she would have done had the Elf-witch tried to speak. Her mind had no place for anyone else.

A hiss drew her from her thoughts.

"Back to Rivendell," Bilbo whispered.

Snores were all around her, and Bilbo was standing at the mouth of the cave, illuminated by moonlight.

It was so late already?

"You can't go now," Bofur said. "You're one of us now."

"Am I? Am I?" Bilbo demanded. "You heard what Thorin said. He's right. I don't know why I came. I'm a Baggins. I can't fight, I can't steal from a dragon, I can't even walk a mountain road without falling over. I should never have run out my door."

Avayta saw a gleam from unclosed eyes a little in the cave. Was Thorin happy now? He'd chased off the burglar he never wanted. Next would be the healer.

There was a strange groaning noise, punctuated by creaks and the rattle of metal. From below came the sound of light tapping, like claws on stone.

She leapt up.

"Wake up!"

Cracks began to form on the ground, sand hissing as it fell through. _Sand_ , in a mountains cave.

Thorin had sat up, and his eyes widened in alarm as he saw it. "Wake up! Wake up!"

The floor trembled. Avatya leapt towards the exit as the floor gave way, pushing Bilbo onto the path outside. She turned to see the dwarves waking to chaos, Bofur's frantic face as he fell. She lunged wildly for his hand, and felt the barest touch of his fingertips.

The hole beneath the trapdoors was large, encompassing the entire cave. Further down, she glimpsed an orange glow.

The smell was confirmation enough.

Avatya withdrew quickly behind the wall, pulling Bilbo further away from the mouth of the cave.

"Wh–"

She pressed her finger to his lips, shaking her head ferociously. The tap-tap-tap echoed, growing louder. There was a chitter, then the goblin scuttled away, its footsteps receding. There was more creaking and groaning, and Avatya waited until the last of its echoes have died down before daring a peak into the cave.

The floor was once again covered, sand haphazardly strewn over the cracks Avatya now knew existed.

Only then did she turn her attention to Bilbo.

"What was that?" He asked in a whisper.

"Goblins," she replied. "You do not need to whisper. It has already reset the trap and left."

"Oh okay. Alright," Bilbo said, exhaling heavily. "So where are the dwarves now? What do we do?"

"You may return to Rivendell still," Avatya told him, "and if you see the wizard on the way tell him to hurry up. The dwarves are now in Goblin territory."

"Oh. You heard that." Bilbo looked down guiltily, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat.

"Well I can't leave now!" He burst out after a moment. "I can't just abandon them like that when they've gone and landed themselves into trouble. They're still my friends. Well, some, anyway."

She looked at him. "It is your choice to make. I warn you now that goblins are dangerous and all you have learnt of swordplay in Rivendell will come in useful."

Bilbo nodded firmly, resting a hand on the hilt of his small knife. "I'll come with you. I want to help."

"Very well. There must be another way into the mountain," Avatya said. "It would not be wise to knock on their trap if we are to enter unnoticed."

She wrapped her cloak tighter about herself and adjusted her belt. All her other belongings were lost in the goblin pit now, and she doubted seeing them again. Scowling, Avatya stalked forward on the path.

Not even a hundred paces away was an opening to another cave, and the carved triangle beside it marked it as the travellers' stop they should have gone. Damn the stone-giants, damn the rain. They were so relieved to find shelter that they hadn't questioned it more than a cursory inspection.

Avatya slammed the side of her fist against the cliff.

There were many ways into the mountain, she was certain. All they needed was one. The path was empty behind them, and she continued on its gradual descent.

Thirty-three paces away, the wind stilled. Avatya halted, glancing down the cliff-edge. There was another edge below it, not too long a drop away. On that ledge was a sad, dead, dry thing that was more a dense cluster of twigs than a bush, concealing the opening of a crevice that was visible from above.

She looked at Bilbo.

"Can you climb?"

* * *

The goblin tunnel was rank and small, so narrow in some places that Bilbo had to squeeze to fit through the gaps. It also twisted and sloped steeply at times, but for all its faults it was empty.

There was a cacophony in the distance, made indistinct by distance and echoes, and she hastened.

"Keep your sword ready," she murmured to Bilbo. "But do not draw it yet lest other eyes see its glow."

The tunnel ended at a walkway of wooden planks. Before them was a massive cavern, and at its centre was a single stone column, rising up from shadowed depths. Ropes and wood held up an entire city on the cavern walls, connecting to the central platform with two rope bridges. On that platform were the company and the biggest goblin Avatya had ever seen. Her blood froze.

"If it's more information you want, then I'm the one you should speak to!" Bofur said, standing before the Goblin King.

"They're surrounded," Bilbo said anxiously, peeking cautiously over the walkway at the scene below. "What do we do now?"

"See, we were on a road. Which was actually more like a path. Well, it's not even that, come to think of it. More like a track."

Good on Bofur, dithering for time. Alas, there was no way thirteen of them could fight their way out. Avatya had made a terrible mistake.

"It is true that your folk can pass unnoticed if you wished so, is it not?" She whispered quickly to Bilbo, when below the Goblin King saw through Bofur's meaningless ramble with a roar of anger.

"If they will not talk, we'll make 'em squawk! Bring out the mangler! Bring out the bone-crusher!"

Bilbo looked uncertainly at her. "Big Folk don't see us very often, if that's what you mean."

"Head towards the lower exits and do not be seen. I will meet with the Goblin King."

"What?" With a wince, he quickly lowered his voice. "What? Is this like the trolls? Do you know him from before?"

Avatya shook her head, face grim. "I assumed they would imprison the dwarves first. I was wrong. You should escape while you can, and I will attempt to treat with the goblin. He is long-lived; he may know the tales."

"No, Bilbo," she said, seeing the indignation on his face and speaking before he could argue. "You cannot help here. Escape and find Gandalf. He is our only hope should I fail."

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Thorin stirring in the throng of dwarves. "Go now!"

Avatya pushed Bilbo down the path, clearing her throat. Goblin-speak was a reverse of fair speech, made easier by all the fell words in the Black Speech.

" _Foulest greetings on this worst of days!_ " She called out. Her words thundered throughout the cavern, drowning out Thorin's desperate cry. He must not be recognised.

The goblins froze, and only the platform made a sound as the Goblin King turned his large mass around in search of the speaker.

" _Your words are polite yet your actions are not,_ " he replied in kind, arms outstretched. " _Show yourself, o visitor to my modest kingdom._ "

" _I am only passing, until I heard of your infestation and came to sate my curiosity._ " She kept her tone haughty, burying her wince under layers of disdain.

The Goblin King's bulbous bloodshot eye swivelled to her.

" _We are honoured by your attention_ ," he said with a flourished bow. " _You are welcome to inspect them._ "

Avatya took two steps forward and leapt. The rope that stretched across the cavern cut into her fingers as she swung from it to the platform, and the lesser goblins parted to let her stand before their king. She glanced at the dwarves from the corner of her vision. They were mulishly silent. Thorin watched her suspiciously, eyes narrowed, and she stopped in front of him to face the Goblin King.

" _Surely someone as you would rather visit our gracious neighbour over this small realm of humble king,_ " he said, a wide smile pulling at his massive jowl.

" _Nonsense. Why would I when you are far stronger?_ " Something bubbled in the back of her throat and iron flooded her mouth.

The Goblin King smirked. His eyes were cold.

"Liar."

She bared her teeth at him. " _Take care of your insolence lest I do it for you._ "

"I don't believe I have anything to fear from a snake with no fangs," The Goblin King said, and he began to laugh.

Avatya froze.

"You thought I wouldn't know?" He asked between chortles. "Those eyes. The aura. Even without the family semblance it is obvious."

He loomed closer, grinning widely. "You are the traitor, the coward who begged before the enemy who declawed and defanged you before throwing you out."

Another mistake, to assume the Goblin King less sly than he was. It had not been luck and brute force that kept him on his throne for so long.

"I don't know if I can kill you," the Goblin King wondered aloud. "But I am delighted to try, and if I failed I know my neighbour would be most capable of ending you."

His neighbour? What kind of creature was that?

From the side she heard the groaning and creaking of reluctant wood and risked a glance.

A massive rack was being carried forth, stained deep brown with dried blood. Behind it followed other instruments of torture—a spiked wheel, chained chairs, and more, the line without end as it snaked from the cavern walls to the centre platform.

"Normally I start with the youngest," said the king. "But today shall be an exception!"

The goblins cheered, a spine-shivering raucous of shrieks and chitter.

A flash of grey appeared in the corner of her vision. Avatya did not smile as she stepped forward.

"Alas, I am already bound," she said, holding out her left hand. A drop of blood escaped from the corner of her lips.

As the Goblin King brought his face near, she slammed her right arm into the side of his head, making sure that it was the metal that landed first.

All the lights in the cavern went out in a breathless moment. Then a column of white fire blazed into existence, thick blue smoke swirling around them all. Where the fire leapt, goblins shrieked and scattered.

"To arms! Pick up your weapons and follow me!" Gandalf shouted.

Avatya couldn't see him through the smoke, only the shine of Glamdring as it silently cut through the air like a deadly gust of wind. But she could feel his presence acutely in her mind, and moved easily behind him.

"He wields the Foehammer, the Beater!" The Goblin King moaned, and she was forced to duck quickly below a swing of his great club. "Bright as daylight. Get them! Get them!"

The smoke was dissipating as the dwarves scrambled for their weapons, and suddenly they were no longer defenceless prey to the advancing goblins. The Goblin King slammed down with his club, breaking wood instead of bone as the dwarves scattered.

His bulbous eyes fell upon Thorin.

"You!" He said, stumbling backwards onto his throne in surprise.

"Come!" Gandalf said fiercely, drawing the dwarves' attention back to him.

As they ran from the platform, the Goblin King cackled.

"What a catch! Send word away that Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, Crownless and Mountainless is in my hall!"

Dread filled Avatya. Their secrecy was gone and the orcs would soon find them.

She tugged on Gandalf's cloak to get his attention.

"Wh-" She broke off with a gurgle, turning aside to spit away the blood. "Where is Bilbo?"

"At the exit," Gandalf said, pausing briefly to dispatch a goblin.

A heavy weight fell from Avatya. Bilbo had ran into Gandalf. He was safe. Not for long, what with the goblins they were bringing at their heels, but safer than them at the moment.

Two goblins slipped past Gandalf, snarling. She stopped the first one with a punch to its head, forcing it off the bridge, but the second evaded her, only to meet its end at the sharp edge of Glóin's axe.

More goblins sprung up from the sides, climbing up the walkway or dropping down from below. Bare hands were not enough. Her thoughts drifted to the sword at her side. Anguirel had the reach, could cut easily through soft mortal flesh—

Avatya dropped her hand away from the hilt and wrenched a slender pole from the column that supported the upper level. It snapped messily at one end, only a little longer than her arm, but it was good enough. As a goblin swung towards her, she stabbed the snapped end into its neck. It dangled limply from the makeshift spear until she swung the pole and dislodged it into another group of attackers.

One way or another, they fought their way to a bridge of wood over a deep chasm. Goblins swarmed before them, crude weapons glinting in torchlight. Gandalf stopped. Behind, their pursuers caught up with a clattering chitter.

"You thought you could escape me, eh?"

The Goblin King emerged from the shadows on the other side with leer, stepping onto the bridge. "What will you do now, wizard?"

Gandalf was pale, but he met the challenge with steady strides.

"Hmm?" The Goblin King swung his club. Gandalf leaned back to avoid it taking off his long nose, and tapped his staff against the floor.

The goblins' torches flared brightly, their flames lengthening. The Goblin King looked around, and Gandalf struck. His sword was a flash of blue flame as he pulled it from the Goblin King's massive chest.

The bridge trembled as the great body collapsed. The company heaved a collective sigh.

Then in a chain of creaks and snaps, it broke.

Avatya clung on to the planks at her feet as the bridge smashed through the lower levels of the city. The wind rushed up at them, tearing away the dwarves' exclamations as quickly as they were voiced. There was a strange fragrance to it. The chasm walls narrowed as they feel deeper and deeper, grinding against the long ends of the bridge.

When the ground was near their slowing bridge, she released her white-knuckled grip and threw herself off. The hard stone floor met her back unyieldingly, expelling all her air out in a soft cry. Avatya rolled once and laid on her back, gasping for breath.

The dwarves were groaning too, no one save Gandalf moving for a long moment. Then slowly, they pulled themselves out of the wooden wreckage, plucking roughly away at the splinters embedded their skin. Avatya rolled to her knees,

"Gandalf?" Kíli said suddenly. "Gandalf? We should go."

She followed his gaze up. All the goblins in the mountain were after them now, crawling down the cliff-face with alarming speed.

"Only daylight will save us now," Gandalf said grimly. "Up! Onto your feet! I sense an exit nearby."

They continued running.

The tunnel turned sharply, and at its end was sunlight.

It was gloriously warm on her face, gold and soft from the setting sun, and she closed her eyes to bask in it for a long while as they burst from the mountain.

Then she snapped them open.

"Bilbo?" She demanded to Gandalf.

His face fell. "I entered from the opening on the level of the bridge and bade him to meet us there."

The bridge level had been swarming with goblins.

She stopped abruptly in disbelief.

"Caught?"

Face grim, Gandalf shook his head slowly. "I do not know."

Damn him. Avatya turned around, racing back up the slope. As she neared the entrance to the goblin tunnel, a familiar voice called out. "Avatya! Wait!"

She spun around, astonishment rendering her speechless. Bilbo was emerging from the side of a tree, none too worse for wear.

"Gandalf said you'd be–" she broke off coughing, gesturing at some point higher up the mountains.

"When the goblins came I figured you weren't going to come this way," he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Then I got lost, so it took a while to catch-up."

"Glad," Avatya said hoarsely, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. It came away slick.

"Should, uh, you be talking?"

Bilbo looked concerned, and she shook her head. Single words were easier to manage and felt less like there was a knife stuck in her throat, though.

They walked back to the company, who had turned to wait for them.

"I have never been more glad to see you, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf said, and it was true relief in his eyes as he regarded the hobbit.

Thorin eyed them, face unreadable, and said nothing.

"What happened after the trapdoor?" Kíli asked eagerly. "You didn't fall in with us."

"No, I didn't. Avatya pushed me out of the cave. Thanks for that, by the way," he directed her way. "Then we found another entrance into the mountain and saw you with the big goblin. Avatya started speaking, then I encountered Gandalf on the way down, fumbled my way to the exit, and, well. Found all of you again."

He spread his hands out.

"All the goblins must've been too busy chasing us to spot you," Bofur said, grinning.

Bilbo laughed awkwardly. "Quite possibly. I only met two goblins in total."

"Why did you come back?" Thorin said suddenly.

Bilbo licked his lips, rocking back on his heels. "Look, I know you doubt me. I doubt me too. You came into Bag End expecting some... some master warrior or some expert burglar. Someone stronger, more knowledgable, but you got me. I haven't done any of the things I'm supposed to do on this Quest before in my life, and I miss my books, my armchair, my garden, Bad End."

The winds shifted. Avatya inhaled sharply. There was a distant echo of warg cries on the wind, followed by howling that was very much closer.

Bilbo had finished his little speech and the dwarves were silent. It was peaceful. They had just escaped. The sun was still shining.

"Warg pack," she said, resenting the fact that she had to be the one to break the peace. "Behind mountain. Less than half an hour."

Gandalf frowned. "Then we run."

"Outrun the wargs?" Fíli said dubiously.

"No, not outrun them. There may be shelters down the mountain."

"And we may finally see who is our hunter," Balin said grimly.

"From goblin racks to warg packs," Bilbo muttered under his breath in exasperation, and they began to run.

* * *

 **was suddenly moved to write this chapter so I can get the muse outta my head and focus on the main fic that is read actually by more than like, five people.**

 **to people who have an inkling as to what my main fic is, am so sorry for vanishing after saying I'd update in December '-'**


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